


The Third Sorceress War, Part II (Terra Incognita)

by Kount_Xero



Series: The Sorceress War [6]
Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Depressing, Depression, Depressive, Diplomacy, Gen, Intrigue, Post Traumatic Stress, Torture, War, depictions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-10 09:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 28,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19903423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kount_Xero/pseuds/Kount_Xero
Summary: It was inevitable, its seeds sown years ago, and now that a line has been crossed, it's come to this. SeeD rises to counter the threat of the sorceress, and the sorceress rises to the challenge... the fated children have to go to war once again, this time against an enemy that used to be one of their own.





	1. Prologue (Esthar City Night)

Brea lit up her cigarette and inhaled deeply. The streets of Esthar City, at night, drew pale halos around their sky blues and purples and greens, flooding the streets with a calming, pulsing luminosity. The rounded, soft, almost plastic shapes around her made her feel enclosed in some sort of tube or a preservative container – a feeling she relished.

Esthar City nights were full of serene dwellers choosing to revel in the beauty of this soft, dim luminosity.

Brea found her way to the bar that she usually went to, Crescent Drop. The entrance had a holographic sign above it, depicting a crescent moon with a singular droplet falling from the lower tip. Brea entered and the bar immediately greeted her with the fresh scent of well-cleaned surfaces, the soft background music consisting mainly of synthetic chamber orchestra pieces, the relative absence of a crowd and her now-regular seat on the counter. She slid into the temperofoam stool and felt it relax and take her shape.

The bartender, a very pleasant man by the name of Lex, smiled upon seeing her and immediately went to fix her drink: an Adel. The drink itself was two-thirds vodka to one-third mixed fruit nectar. Tasted smooth enough but still carried a hefty punch and the dull-blade taste of the vodka. He then placed an ashtray, gleaming in its cleanliness, on the counter.

Brea ashed her cigarette and took her first sip. She sat quietly, smoking and quickly draining the first glass, making way for the second. The ambient sounds of the Crescent Drop shrouded her in blissful, shared isolation and she was left to her thoughts. She knew that before the night was over, she would smoke most of her newly-bought pack, until even the fourth or fifth glass tasted of nothing but ash.

It was all she could do to shake off the day, to shake off what was fast becoming her days.

There was a view screen above the bar counter, its volume low but still audible, turned to Esthar News Network.

_“...amenable to the suggestion that Galbadia remove the remaining active SeeDs in the country. Whether or not this affects those currently stationed to the Dollet Dukedom as per their annual contracts remains to be seen. On related news, President Loire is currently at the Estharian Embassy in Deling City to discuss Estharian foreign policy regarding the supplying of Estharian equipment to the Balamb Training Facility with President Heartilly. It is speculated that...”_

Brea took a large sip and drifted into the idle background chatter to shut the droning news report out. She didn’t need to hear it, not right now. Crescent Drop had become her little shelter in the past two weels, a place where she could get away from the continuity of the situation, from the ongoing war.

She put out her finished cigarette and lit up another.

Two weeks. Her General was still, they presumed, alive and in the hands of the Sorceress. So far, there seemed to be no way of getting to him without sparking an intercontinental war, the prospect of which was met, as President Loire had said, with scorn in the Estharian Parliament. As he kept repeating during one of the endless discussions that never ended, his hands were tied.

Brea tried to remember how it had been before the Ocean Garden Atrocity, before Squall Leonhart had saved her from getting lost in the shuffle. It came very naturally to her to be his aide, to obey orders and support him. He never said it, but she could feel that he counted on her, that he depended on her, and that was more than enough. She was happy to help.

At least then, she could feel like she belonged somewhere in the grand scheme of things. Life as a SeeD was one of constant preparation and of the absence of roots. You could be stationed anywhere, anytime, and when you were simply idling in the Ocean Garden, there was the constant training, the constant preparation for _when_ you’d be stationed anywhere, anytime.

The thin, silver chain of her pendant, now warm, reminded her of how life had been before SeeD. Brea didn’t need to pull it out or glance onto what was hanging from it. Hyne Cross, a gift from Jake, on her 16th birthday. His absence was more pronounced at moments like these.

Two days. He had enjoyed seeing her wear it for two days before Galbadian missiles had taken Trabia Garden, and him from her. In the aftermath, she had been one of the many whom had applied to transfer to Balamb Garden. Some of those would return after they had made SeeD, to contribute to the reconstruction or to act as instructors.

Brea had sworn that she would never return. Too many memories, too many real ghosts.

But it was different now, in the sense that she didn’t have anywhere to return _to_. It was all in flux, all floating in the void, and they were all just flailing around, trying to find some sort of balance. They all had their ways. Lieutenant General Trepe was using Lieutenant General Almasy to drill the living Hyne out of the cadets and SeeDs at her disposal. President Loire and his constant Advisors Seagill and Zabac were busying themselves trying to recreate one of Dr. Odine’s previous projects. It all had something to do with the president’s niece, Ellone, but it was being kept quiet. Brea had met Ellone, and her impression was that she was a nice, if strangely burdened, person.

Lieutenant General Xu Sess was, rumor had it, drowning herself in freely-available booze and Lieutenant General Nida Adams. He had no objections, of course.

The one Brea had taken upon herself to watch over, as much as she could, was Lieutenant General Tilmitt.

The second glass ended there, and Lex brought her the third without even being prompted to do so. Lex also always asked for her to pay on the third glass, so Brea fished out the credit card from her pocket and handed it to him. Her drinking, as well as her cigarettes were on the President’s credit. Lex handed her back the card and she went back to her glass.

She checked the time. 8:12. She still had at least three hours before she had to get back to the Palace.

Brea lit up the next cigarette and wondered where her General was.


	2. Deliberation

On the surface, Rinoa's demeanor was pleasant. She was polite, talked as if she was actually well-versed in politics, had a basic grasp of the concepts Laguna had lived with for most of his life and had the grace to admit when she didn't know or didn't fully grasp something. Yet she lacked the patina of a politician; that sly, amateurish professionalism that should have overtaken every word and sentence. She wore her mask well, but often slipped and revealed that it _was_ a mask.

Laguna knew that only he, and a few others, could see it. He suspected that it had something to do with the Odineum ring he was wearing, despite what had happened. He also noted, with some concern, the mountain of books, times, scrolls and papers scattered across her desk. He hadn’t managed to take a good look on his way in and didn’t want to ask outright, but had his suspicions.

Laguna, seated comfortably on one of the small armchairs forming the guest section of the President’s office, reached for her teacup and took a sip. It was cold. Rinoa, sitting equally comfortably in her own armchair, flanked on both sides by soldiers, smiled courteously. Laguna felt a bit of regret at not having brought proper bodyguards of his own.

“How’s the tea?” she asked.

“Just like I remember it.” Laguna said, “May I ask, where is your... Field Marshal?”

Rinoa’s face contorted, only for a second, into an expression of distress and anger, but it was drowned out by her mask almost instantly.

“Field Marshal Kinneas is still recovering from his injuries." she said "They aren’t severe enough to prevent him from functioning as well as before but... some recovery time is still required.”

“Yes, we all regret that he was hurt.”

Rinoa opened her mouth to speak, but held her tongue.

“Now, much as I love your company, I would like to move onto the matter you called me here for...” Laguna said.

“As you wish." Rinoa nodded, "It’s simple. I want you to stop supplying the Balamb Training Facility with equipment and transportation.”

Laguna raised an eyebrow. Her phrasing definitely could use work.

“Excuse me?” he asked, setting down his teacup.

“I will not repeat myself.” Rinoa said, “Cease and desist your support of SeeDs.”

“...and why would I do that?”

“Because you’re a smart man. You didn’t get to keep your seat as the President for nothing. You had to do certain things, give certain concessions to remain in office. You know that this applies to many other things, and it certainly applies to the situation here. By supplying SeeDs, you’re supplying the same force that tired to kill me two weeks ago.”

Laguna pursed his lips. Despite her bravado, all he saw was a petulant child, pouting and threatening to hold her breath until she died if she didn't get her way.

“Despite what happened two weeks ago, SeeD, in essence, is still a mercenary force." Laguna said, "Weapons-for-hire. Whoever pays the right price can hire them, and as such, they aren’t politically affiliated. Esthar supplying them with, say, combat training equipment isn’t any different from Esthar supplying medical technologies to Cupola General Hospital. Both are based on Gil, both are financial transactions. So please, tell me: why would I want to stop running contracts with such a party?”

“You will comply.” Rinoa said, “If you wish to keep your presence in Galbadia, you will comply.”

“As in?”

“I can have the entire embassy emptied out within the hour.” Rinoa said, “Same goes for the embassy in Timber and in Dollet.”

Laguna doubted that, but it seemed safer to play around the concept than to challenge it.

“On what grounds?” he asked.

“I can declare each and every one of your foreign officials _personae non grata_.”

“That’s the action, not the grounds. You still need a reason.”

“Esthar supplies SeeD. SeeD attacked Galbadia. Esthar supplied those who attacked Galbadia. It’s all very simple.”

_What’s she playing at?_

“You could indeed, Madame President. But it’d spell disaster for your foreign policy. Besides, you’re talking as if the Estharian Parliament will have nothing to say about the matter.”

“And what will they say? Realistically?”

Laguna barely held back a smile. Now was the time.

“I can take a guess..." he said, "They will, in return, close your embassies and send your foreign officials packing home. Any contracts you have with Estharian companies will immediately cease. There might even be callbacks of equipment previousle sold to you. And that, _my dear,_ ” he added, acquiring a look of abject disgust from her, “, is the best case scenario. If, say, the Parliament was to see your declaration as something else, as something a Sorceress, and not a state official, would do, well... that is something else.”

Rinoa pressed her lips together until they formed a thin line on her face. He could almost hear her thoughts snapping. He waited for her to gather her composure once again, and to think her next sentence over. Coming here without bodyguards and not wearing a tie had been Kiros’ ideas: to create the illusion that she was talking to just any random man from the Estharian foreign ministry, only to harshly take that illusion away when the situation called for it. Laguna had appreciated the idea when it was suggested, and had followed it, but didn’t know if it had worked just now.

“I might not be able to make you.” She said, “But I can sell this idea to the public. They already see it as a foreign attack – somebody wanting to uproot the order I established here. It shouldn’t be too hard to persuade them that Esthar was involved... and you _were_ involved. I know that for a fact.”

“How is the good doctor, by the way?” Laguna asked.

Rinoa grinned, almost savagely, and made Laguna shiver.

“Keeping busy.” she said.

“He always liked to.”

“Yes... yes he does.”

“If there’s nothing else, I would like to take my leave.” Laguna said, “It’s late and the return trip is longer than it should be.”

“...why don’t you stay for a few days?”

Laguna glared at her.

“...excuse me?” he said.

“Forget the return trip. Stay. _I_ _insist.”_

The soldiers on either side of her twitched. Laguna stood up and buttoned up his jacket.

_Give her the illusion of powerlessness and harshly take it away by displaying power._

“Very well.” Laguna said, “But I would like to retire to my room in the Deling Hotel.”

Rinoa smiled knowingly.

“Have a good night, and we will talk in the morning... maybe do lunch.”

_Give her the illusion of concession._

“I’d be delighted.” he said with a smile.


	3. Destitution

Brea felt her throat ache, signaling that her body was finally nearing the rock bottom of her night. Despite it, she liked the heavy buzz of vodka – the liquid weighed down her stomach, but lifted her spirits high. The entire world seemed to be draped under a lazy, beautiful blanket that slowed down her movements but set her thoughts free. She lit up Hyne-knows-which cigarette of the night and smoked freely as she stumbled down the corridors of the Presidential Palace. There was a curfew, 00:00 sharp, and she followed it. Just like how she had followed Squall, through the Ocean Garden Atrocity and into the Deling Offensive.

Out of the frying pan and into the roaring flames.

The hallway felt cold. Brea braced herself and tried to shake it off. She found her way to their sleeping quarters – a cruciform section with rooms branching out in all four directions. She barely managed to take a right, brushed up against the wall and went down the hallway. Room 56, their room... her room, now that he was gone.

She stood in front of it and smoked the rest of her cigarette. With every breath, she felt her drunken stupor lessen and as it did, the painful, tired reality begin to creep up on her. The lazy, beautiful blanket was slowly being pulled away.

She looked at the silver-colored door, at the glowing number on it. The bottle of gin in her hand wasn’t for her. She couldn’t mix drinks like that and expect to make it out without throwing up. It was for _her._ It was the only link to her that Brea knew. For two weeks, she had come to this door, around the same time every night, gin bottle in hand, trying to find the words to say. 

What could she possibly offer..? There was nothing to say, nothing could express what she thought, what she felt. Nothing could justify or deny _her_ what she felt.

Brea stepped forward. She had never seen the inside of the room, she had never been invited in. She knew that it was kept dark, and that the smell of stale air and gin always hung in the air. That was it.

Brea sighed and knocked on the door. She waited. Nothing. She knocked again, with more force, and this time, the door slid open, revealing Selphie Tilmitt. She was wearing that same yellow, oversized t-shirt Brea had seen her wear every time she came here. It even had the same stain on its left shoulder, paler now, but there. Her hair was a frizzed up, tangled mess that hung around her face. Her cheeks were swollen and there were circles around her sunken eyes. She reeked of gin and sleep.

She had a half-empty bottle in her hand.

“You ag-gain...” Selphie slurred, “Whaddya want?”

Brea felt the words get knotted up in her throat. She couldn’t speak, there was too much to say.

“Hmph.”

Selphie took a large swig from the bottle and drained half of the remaining liquid. Then she stood there, glaring at Brea with dead eyes.

“Well?” she demanded.

Brea knew what would come if she didn’t speak, but she couldn’t, how could she..? How could she..?

“Fuck you too.” Selphie said, “You _bitch_. You fucking waste of space. Comin’ here with,” she took another sip and drained a quarter of the bottle, “, nothin’ and ta what? Hm? Say somethin! The fuck is it, cat got your tongue? Why’re ya standin’ there like a dumb fuck just starin’, _what the fuck’re ya lookin’ at?”_

Selphie drank a little bit more. Brea couldn't speak. She could barely breathe.

“Fuck off.” She said. She went back into the room and the door slid closed.

Brea lit up another cigarette with trembling hands and inhaled deep. She lingered, listening in for any sort of sound from the room. She didn’t hear anything but the ambient hum of the hallway. Halfway through her cigarette, now completely sober and wishing she could drink a bit more, she walked away. Her own room was on the same wing, but on the other side, and she knew this final walk of the night well. She would get done with her cigarette halfway, and would light up another without even bothering with the lighter.

Brea didn’t quite know what she expected. Her coming to Selphie's doorstep wasn’t to piss her off. It wasn’t to see her growing destitution for whatever it was that made her smile. It was an apology. It was to say she was sorry.

_Sorry for letting you down, sir._

Brea pressed her palm against the door of room 11, and hung her head as the door scanned her palm. There was a hiss and a sliding sound and her room, dimly lit, yet tidy and together, was waiting. Brea stepped in and the door closed behind her.

There was an armchair right next to the balcony door, standing next to a lower coffee table. On the coffee table was an ashtray choking with cigarettes. Brea sat down and continued to suck down smoke. She didn’t know how long it had been since she had breathed normally. She was afraid to breathe, afraid to let up on this bit of self-abuse.

Brea trapped her cigarette between her teeth and took off her jacket. Her short-sleeved black shirt exposed her pale skin, and revealed the marks punctuating it. She took a few more drags and remembered the Mansion, remembered the piercing gaze of the Sorceress. The bitch had looked at her with a smug, assured gaze, as if to say, _you are powerless here._

And she had felt that. Every time she remembered, she felt again that feeling of powerlessness. The Sorceress had let them, no, _allowed_ them to leave.

Brea pressed the cigarette on a clear spot near her wrist, felt the smoldering tip burn a sharp, biting pain into the skin. She grunted through clenched teeth as she pressed harder on the cigarette, making sure it was extinguished. It was. She threw the butt into the ashtray and dragged herself to bed.

There was work to be done in the morning. Ellone would be waiting. Ellone... and the rest of the nightmare.


	4. Depreciation

He, too, had scars now, just like that asshole Squall Leonhart and his possible gay lover, Seifer Almasy. But their scars distinguished them from the crowd in an endearing way. Their scars were elegant, left most of their faces untouched, only decorated them. Like make-up, only permanent. Only proud.

He had three lines running across his left cheek, each line digging deeper into skin, so much so that the patches of flesh in between looked like they had been puffed up. The swelling had gone down and the stitches had been removed, but the remaining scars mutilated his face to the point where he could barely stomach looking in the mirror long enough to shave. Not that he could shave his left side or anything.

Irvine limped back to the bedroom, to his uniform spread out on the bed. His arm had healed nicely, the scars on his torso looked very cool, but his leg was still dragging behind. The skin had healed, the muscles would take longer. Every step made him wince, but he continued. He sat down on the bed.

His uniform was pressed, sharp as a razor and was ready to be worn. Color of gun metal, serge wool, four-button jacket, epaulets displaying the golden stars of the Field Marshal. Black leather sash and accompanying gun holster, currently keeping the handgun he had killed Joaqim with.

There was a cane, Timber oak, leaning against the bed, waiting for him.

He ran his fingers across the rugged fabric of the jacket. The uniform, _his_ uniform, felt both like home and like grave to his touch.

Irvine slowly got dressed, cringed at the movements required to put on his pants and to buckle up his jack boots. Begrudgingly, he took the cane and dragged himself out of the bedroom. The hallway leading up to Rinoa’s office seemed twice as long as it used to be. He was two steps from the doors when they opened and let out President Loire. Irvine stopped dead at his tracks. Laguna noticed him, and lingered for a second or two, glancing at him. Irvine countered the best he could. Laguna walked away without saying a word.

Irvine entered Rinoa’s office just as her just-for-show retinue of two guards walked out. Rinoa herself was sitting by the window, drinking what looked like cold tea. Upon seeing him, she smiled.

“Nice to see you up and about.” She said.

“I’m managing.”

“Come, sit.”

Irvine sat down next to her.

“He didn’t come here to look for his son.” Rinoa said.

“I still don’t see why you didn’t just kill him...”

Rinoa’s fingers travelled down his left cheek and through the scars. He almost turned away.

“I can’t do that, lover.” she said, sweetly.

“And why not?”

“As long as we have him, we’re untouchable. Esthar can’t make a move, because they can’t admit that they tried to take me down without giving me the arsenal I’ll need to control public opinion here. Laguna can’t make a move, because he’s still just the President. The power he came here to demonstrate depends on his parliament.”

“And... the rest?”

“The rest of them, the cocksuckers that did this,” her index finger traced one of the lines across his cheek, “, can’t make a move. They don’t have the resources. They don’t have intel. Even if they see through my inability to kill him, they won’t risk it.”

Irvine smiled, feeling his left cheek ache. His smile vanished.

“You out-played them.” He said.

“At a terrible price.” Rinoa replied, running a hand through his hair. She leaned in and kissed him, lightly, affectionately. He caught her lips before she could move away and prolonged the kiss, prompting her to gently fling her arms around his neck. Irvine felt a pull on the left side of his lips as he kissed her, a deep line where there should be none was forcing his lips back.

It was Rinoa who broke the kiss.

“It’s late.” She said, “And I still have some reading to do. A book came from Dollet earlier today, I haven’t had a chance to look at it properly. It’s so old the jacket blurb says it belongs to the Holy Dollet Empire.”

Irvine raised an eyebrow.

“Is it..?” he prompted.

Rinoa nodded. “It sorceress lore like the others, though I think this latest one is by far the oldest one I have.”

“Should be hard to come by.”

“It took a lot of arm-twisting, but nobody died.”

Irvine shivered.

“Do you have plans tonight?” she asked.

“No.”

“Well, I have a proposal for you,” she said and kissed his nose, “Why don’t you go down to the pub?”

“The pub?”

“Show them that you’re still standing. Show off your scars. Give them something to see, remind them of how close they came. Remind them how lucky they are that you took a bullet for them.”

The thought of going out in public where others could see him irked Irvine to the point where his gag reflex almost kicked in. Not like this, not while he was like this... he didn’t have pride in his scars. He had taken that spell like a sucker and had had to watch while Selphie had joyfully carved him up, humming a tune as she had gone at it. He had felt the cutting edges of her nunchuks slicing through his flesh, tearing into muscle, and hadn’t even been able to scream.

Some part of him had recognized this as his due. Now, every time he looked in the mirror, he saw the consequences to his actions.

“Besides,” Rinoa said, “If you don’t get out, you’ll hover, and I won’t get any research done.”

Irvine wasn’t about to contest the importance of her research. It had been her consumption of anything related to magic that had secured their objective two weeks ago. So he kissed her one last time, stood up and left to get his coat.


	5. Desideration

Ellone woke up with a splitting headache. She sat up in bed and rubbed her temples. She could feel her entire eyeballs for what they were: spheres inserted into their sockets, turning and throbbing. She reached for the bedside, for the bottle of painkillers Uncle Laguna’s doctors had prescribed her. They were too light to do much about her headaches, as anything stronger would dampen her abilities, but nevertheless she felt a little better by default the moment she popped one, so she did. She set the glass down and tried to gather her senses. The pain was draped over everything else, watering down the confines of her room.

The room was the same ever since Uncle Laguna had been President. A circular space with her bed facing a panoramic window. Two bedsides, both with lamps resembling those she had slept next to in Raine’s pub, emanating halos of warm, golden light. Her wardrobe was on the right corner, next to the bathroom door. On the left hand corner was the comm-station – a touch-screen standing on a mobile easel.

Ellone got up and walked into the bathroom. The cold tiles under her bare feet made her shiver. She washed up, hoping the cold water would numb the pain some. It didn’t help.

The first week hadn’t been like this. There had been a bit of a headache every time she had tried to send Quistis to Squall’s past, but nothing major. But during the second week, she had started getting progressively worse headaches. After two days on pain, sleeping or painkillers had ceased helping. As she brushed her hair, feeling every brushstroke as a deafening scratch across her scalp, she wondered who she would be trying to send back today - they had been taking turns, but the number of volunteers had quickly dwindled.

She couldn't say she blamed them. The sprawling nightmare of it... it was enough to make anyone scared of connecting.

Pushing the thought away, Ellone returned to the room and got dressed. Her clothes felt cold against her skin, her shoes too constricting. Sighing, she went to the comm-station. She tapped through the menus and called the President’s Office.

Kiros’ face appeared on the screen.

_“Morning, Elle.”_

“Good morning, Mr. Kiros.”

_“How are you feeling?”_

“Okay.” She lied.

_“...it’s getting worse, isn’t it?”_

Ellone wasn’t surprised that he had seen through it.

“ _Maybe you should take a day off. I can talk to the apothecaries about getting you stronger painkillers.”_

“Thanks, Mr. Kiros, but no. I have to keep trying.” She started to rub her temples, “Did Uncle Laguna come back?”

_“He called. He’s staying there for a couple of days.”_

“Who am I working with today? Please tell me it’s not...”

_“Brea Willings. I’m sorry.”_

If Ellone herself was exhausted, Brea was even more so.

“Again? I thought we would be rotating who went under. This is her ninth day in a row.”

Ellone knew that this wasn’t only due to Brea’s apparent willingness to try. The others had gone only once, and of them, Selphie hadn’t been seen by anyone. Ellone had heard that she had barricaded herself in her room and only contacted the kitchens, and then only for sandwiches and gin. But still...

“ _Try telling that to her.”_

“We should get one of the others today.”

_“Elle, they... they think he’s dead. Selphie, I’m told, is mourning him.”_

“We don’t know that...”

_“An inference is better than an assumption any day of the week.”_

“Yes. Anyway, I’m ready. When can we begin?”

_“Did you eat something, Elle?”_

“I can get something from the kitchens on the way.”

_“I’ll have them prepare something for you.”_

“That’ll be fine. Then I’ll be right over.”

_“I’ll let her know.”_

The screen went blank.

Ellone didn’t feel hunger. She hadn’t felt hungry in days now – only an ever-present nausea that only lessened slightly after she ate, but always remained. She left the room knowing that the food would taste bland despite the renowned skills of the chefs employed and that it’d never make her feel full. Still, she went down to the kitchens to receive two neatly-prepared sandwiches on a sky blue porcelain plate from the chef whose name escaped her. Rye bread, lettuce, tomato, the slightest hint of garlic mayonnaise, garnish and Estharian salmon. The square slices of bread were cut into triangles. It was light, supposedly delicious and contained enough of everything to keep her fed, and was useless and tasteless.

She politely thanked the chef for his efforts and proceeded to stuff it down on her way down to the lab. She forced herself to swallow every bite down, feeling that if nothing, she owed it to those who had prepared it for her.

She got into the northwestern wing elevator and went down to the -3rd level, and finished the last of the sandwiches before the elevator announced its arrival and the doors hissed open. Directly across the hall was the opened double-doors of what used to be one of Dr. Odine’s laboratories. Ellone went inside to find Kiros, Mir and Ward waiting for her. After greeting each one and hand-waving their questions about her health (what could she really say when all she felt was a longing for the absence of this ache?) she turned to what had become her workstation.

There were two leather recliners in the middle of the room, arranged in a V. There was a plastiglass table in the middle, holding two glasses and two white pills that Ellone knew to be sedatives – sedatives that she’d need to breathe before long.

Brea was already seated on her recliner, waiting for her, so Ellone took her place.

“Brea.”

“Ms. Ellone.”

“Just Ellone, please.”

“Ellone.”

“You shouldn’t be here, Brea. You should be resting.”

“So should you.”

Ellone shook her head, “It’s different for me. I’m the only one who can do this.”

“So am I.”

“No, you’re not.” Kiros said, “Selphie hasn’t gone for a second time.” Kiros said.

“It’d be better if she were here.” Ellone said, “The last time Squall had me use my abilities, his connection to his desired target was so strong that it actually worked better than it would have if I were to send some random person to the past of another.”

Brea looked somewhat shaken, as if taken aback, and Ellone wondered if she had taken it as an insult. But instead of remarking on it, Brea just said:

“...I think it’s better that she doesn’t try. Not for a while. She’s in no condition to.”

“It’d be better...” Ellone started.

“I’m what you’ve got.” Brea said, "Sorry."

“Are you sure?” Ellone asked.

Brea nodded.

“Then lean back and close your eyes.”

Ellone leaned back and settled in. Brea did the same. With a sigh and a deep breath, Ellone closed her eyes and began.


	6. Descent & Denial

* * *

**DESCENT**

* * *

In the quiet darkness, there was a sound. A voice repeating a name, over and over again, like a mantra. It echoed in whispers, scattering into the void. Full of meaning and despair, the name trickled down the edges of the shapeless room filled with the quiet darkness. It dripped off of surfaces unseen and pooled at their feet; soaking all those watching, all those waiting.

Brea tried to catch the name, but it was intangible, evanescent. It slipped through her fingers and out of her mind with ease, as if it had never been there... indistinct, unpronounced.

More pronounced, more present and more distinctive was the taste of blood, overwhelming the name.

It was _her_ blood.

Brea didn’t know who she was, but knew that it was her blood – she knew every droplet intimately. It tasted like sugared wine - sweet, rich and deadly. Thick and sickly.

Repeating like the name, pooling like the blood and cascading down the shapeless dark was the body.

Pale flesh, familiar, many times explored and yet still strange, still alien, cold and dead, cluttered the emptiness with its inevitability, it’s inescapability.

The body was absolute and unmoving, even as it changed, even as it twisted and contorted into shapes, distorting the natural angles of itself; bending limbs the wrong way, breaking them, shattering bone, tearing skin, ripping muscle and sinew, damaging itself, being damaged simply by being itself. Accruing agony, accumulating misery. Building up to despair, saving up to suffocating helplessness.

The body was dead in all the ways that anyone could count, all the ways in which a body could be dead.

...all the ways in which corpses were made, all the ways in which autopsy tables were filled, all the ways in which graves were dug...

Brea felt air desert her lungs and there she was, drowning underneath these two realities: the dripping truths and the inescapable lies became cold, rigid hands around her neck. She couldn’t breathe through it all, there was no room for breathing in anything that wasn’t the name, that wasn’t the body, that wasn’t the blood, that wasn’t the damage or the death. Breathing had deserted her, it didn’t exist in this place.

The name was on the tip of her tongue. The body, she almost recognized. The blood, she almost remembered tasting.

Brea opened her mouth to scream, but there was no sound.

* * *

**DENIAL**

* * *

Ellone sat up with a blood-curdling shriek. The first few moments was always a mess of sensory input mercilessly assaulting her: the soft, warm feeling of leather underneath her, the smell of metal and the whiff of air conditioning in the dry air, the voices of those persent asking her garbled, indecipherable questions, the pounding in her head, the pain flowing out of her eyeballs...

She started taking deeper, slower breaths, gradually bringing down her racing heart to a manageable rhythm. She reached for the sedative by her recliner and popped it. She took a while, sat there, eyes closed, and tried to see through the pain in her head. Her skull felt like it was splitting open. She could almost hear the bone cracking...

“Ms. Ellone?”

Ellone turned and met the concerned gaze of Brea, who looked like she had seen a ghost: she was white as a sheet, sweat was wetting the roots of her hair and her eyes were wide open, showing nothing but barely-restrained terror.

“I’m okay...” Ellone sighed, “I’m okay...”

Ellone heard something drip onto the leather. She reached for her nose and touched it with tips of her fingers. She saw that they were stained with blood.

“Ellone...” Kiros’ concerned voice came.

“It’s just a nosebleed.” Ellone said, “Do you have a handkerchief, I...”

Kiros handed her a lavender handkerchief. Ellone pressed it up against her nose. It didn’t take long for the cloth to acquire a dark stain.

Brea took her own sedative. Then, with shaking hands, she fished out her cigarette pack and lit one up.

Ellone leaned back, “I still can’t.” she said through the handkerchief, “I can’t connect with him properly.”

“Is it the Sorceress?” Brea asked.

Ellone shook her head. “She’s powerful, but not _that_ powerful. I mean, Ultimecia could sense me when I used my power, and could banish me, but she couldn’t deny me entrance. I doubt Rinoa has obtained such a power.” She sighed, “No, that’s not it at all.”

“She’s done something to him.” Brea said, softly, “Or, she is _doing_ something to him.”

“We don’t know that for sure.” Mir said.

“There is no other explanation.” Ellone said.

Nobody said anything.

“May I go, sir?” Brea asked.

“Sure.” Kiros said, “If you need painkillers, you know where to go.”

“I do. Thank you. Thanks, Ms. Ellone.”

Ellone nodded. Her head was killing her and the nausea was back at full force. She felt like she could throw up while her head exploded any second. She closed her eyes. She could taste the blood, like sugared wine, sweet, rich and deadly and it was making her sick.


	7. Defocusing

Dr. Odine walked into his chambers and dropped the heavy load of spreadsheet charts and reports belonging to that morning’s session onto his study desk. There was a coat hanger in between his desk and his bed, and he hung his lab coat on it. He undid the bun he had pulled his hair into and enjoyed the feeling of stray strands falling where they may. He picked up the phone on the desk and ordered his lunch: the usual, vegetable sandwich with rye bread. The catering in Galbadia Garden was excellent, and it delivered in a timely fashion, and that was just about the only luxury he required. It wasn't because he liked the luxury of it, it just allowed him to conduct his research without being interrupted unnecessarily.

As if to echo this desire, his room was Spartan in its contents. Nothing but the absolutely necessary. There was a bed by the wall and a nightstand next to it. On top of the night stand was his disk player, standing in between two columns of disks. Facing the nightstand was his study desk, which, itself standing next to a row of filing cabinets. That was it. No decorations of any kind. It wasn't necessary.

Odine methodically separated the documentation across his desk, sorting by subject matter. Each of these subjects tantalized him, each of them excited him – these weren’t just reports or number sequences he had in his hands. No, what he had was riches - riches beyond most, if any, could grasp the value of.

Ah, the act of researching!

To Odine, it was beyond what any drink, drug, any kind of sex or any other thrill (including the thrill of the kill) could offer. It was better than all of them combined. To weave from the raw, unprocessed mass of data clusters of information and then from these clusters to refine finely-shaped, functional, pleasurable _knowledge_ – that was true pleasure, itself raw and unfiltered. Pure.

Odine got up went over his selection of music disks. Like knowledge, the quantitative component of music and its inherent qualitativeness helped him focus. He chose the Estharian Chamber Orchestra and put in their suite of Lunar Cry. The soaring crescendos and the crawling lows would be suitable for his work. As the first cello began, he turned back to the reports.

He skimmed over those belonging to the testing of new weaponry, the strange Marlboro-extract he was trying to work metallurgically and the recycling of SeeD resources and came straight to Squall Leonhart. He took his spreadsheet and began to read through each section outlined, a content smile settling onto his face.

When the Sorceress had first contacted him through official channels, asking if he’d like to work for her, he had been slightly skeptical. Who wouldn’t be? She _was_ the Sorceress, after all. The offer had been left standing for about two years before the Sorceress, now the President, had contacted him again and had told him flat out about her intents of SeeDs and her long-term plans. Odine had had to admit that he was interested, but what had clinched it had been the Sorceress’ promise that at the end of all this, he would have at least one human test subject. More, if they succeeded at a higher rate than 100%.

It wasn’t any choice at all, not to him.

The downside of working for Esthar had always been that he wasn’t given enough subjects to work on, to test some of his theories. He was especially interested in the effect of Marlboro extracts on the human body. It could have evolved into a cure for its debilitating effects if it could be metabolized. Of course, then again, it could have ended up being a military-grade poison. Odine didn’t really care which, as long as some sort of conclusion had been derived from the work, he would have been happy.

But then had come the proposal. To use a version of Junction Machine Ellone, a more refined version of the technology not to help her connect... but to help lock someone in a loop within themselves, have them connect to themselves. In this case, it was a toss up between what exactly would be connected to. Over the years, his interest in the peculiar powers of Ellone Loire hadn’t been weakened, only strengthened by his inability to reach her. He had busied himself with something similar, something that, until the Sorceress’ final proposal, he had only entertained as an after-hours project.

Currently, he was going over the morning’s data set. The latest transmitted neuro-values of Subject Zero, a.k.a Squall Leonhart. Odine quickly looked for the one thing that had shown up on the reports since the beginning of his little experiment: the defocusing interval. And, as predicted, there it was, around the same time frame, with the same amount of shift in the same regions of his neural activity. Normally, he was being held somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, as per the continuing experiment. But every day, around the same time for the past two weeks, his brain had lapsed into a more unconscious state. He wasn’t able to lose consciousness altogether, and it always returned to normal.

This notion always made him curse at not being able to remain in Deling, where his subject was, but his deal with the Sorceress involved him working Galbadia Garden’s weapons division as his first priority – the rest of his experiment would be handled by proxy. At this distance, he couldn’t order any random technician to recalibrate his equipment to try and recreate, or possibly get over this problem, so he just had to bear with it. The defocusing perplexed him – he had had three separate sets diagnostics done and nothing had been found. The machine itself was functioning fine, the Sorceress herself had checked the pure magical aspects of the experiment, and those, too, were functional.

Then what was it..? He felt like he should know, but no.

The phone rang at the same time there was a knock on the door. Odine picked the phone up, placed the receiver down, and went to door to retrieve his lunch. When he got back, he picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

_“Hello, Doctor. I hope I didn’t interrupt your lunch.”_

“Madame President. I was just about to have it. It iz no problem.”

_“Have you went over today’s stats?”_

“Ze morning’s, yes.”

_“And?”_

“He defocused around ze same time. If only I could come to Deling, zen...”

_“I’m sorry, Doctor. Right now, you are where I can protect you, and where you can be most useful. I have provided you with everything you might require. I’d think anyone would be happy with that.”_

“But ze experiment-“

_“The experiment is going fine without you personally supervising it on-site.”_

“Vell... apart from...”

 _“Will that..._ can _that affect his status in the long run?”_

“I can’t know zat. He iz Subject Zero, not Subject Zero One.”

“ _What does the data say?”_

 _“_ Zat for now, it hasn’t affected anyzhing.”

_“Glad to hear it.”_

“Maybe I can come to Deling for a short-“

_“Do not push me, doctor. As per our agreement, you are where you will stay. You are only there because I have expanded a considerable amount of resources to bring you there. You will stay put.”_

Odine lifted a trembling fist into the air and shook it at nobody in particular.

“I understand.” he said.

_“If anything changes, you will be the first one to come here, I promise you that. But for now, I will be calling again. Good day, Doctor.”_

“Good day, Madame President.”

Odine threw the phone at the wall. His eye caught the sandwich, wrapped in stretch film, sitting on his desk. He pushed it away with the back of his hand. He had lost his appetite.


	8. Despotism

Laguna threw himself onto the armchair by the balcony and sighed as he took off his tie. He had spent the entire day at the embassy and discussing the possibilities of Rinoa’s intended policies with select members of the parliament. There was no such thing as keeping this quiet or under wraps, he knew, but he could at least keep his speculations and deliberations unofficial for now; never mind that he was using official channels to do it.

His thoughts were interrupted by the phone on the night stand going off. Laguna dragged himself over and picked it up. He was informed by a very polite and formal voice that the President was inviting him to have dinner with her.

Laguna knew that the invitation did not include a choice to decline. He decided not to put his tie back on. He went to the bathroom to wash up. He straightened his hair and pulled it in a ponytail. After he believed he looked what Kiros called ‘presentable,’ he headed down to the hotel restaurant.

Through the double doors that made him feel like he was a young soldier again, was the lush, gold and brown decorations sprinkled with white tablecloths and round tables scattered about the place, waiting. The lights were dim and it all draped a lazy, calm atmosphere over the setting. Rinoa was sitting at a randomly-selected table, waited on by her seemingly ever-present retinue of two soldiers that she carried at level with her shoulders. Like epaulets, he thought. Like the epaulets of the generals of his youth.

Laguna took a deep breath and went over.

“Mister President.” Rinoa said, taking a sip of orange juice, “Good evening.”

“And a very pleasant evening to you, too, Madame President.”

Laguna observed the set-up. Deling steak, Funghar and cream sauce with sautéed onions with mashed potatoes on the side. Red wine, seeming rich and thick in the candle light. Two bottles on the tray next to the table. He couldn’t help but wonder if she could get any more cliché – this was a soldier’s payday meal. He had had that second-grade steak, that burnt sauce of onions and that cheap wine hundreds of times. And still, the meal pleased him: both the restaurant and the meal were in his playground.

They exchanged comments about their meal for the first ten minutes. Laguna shared a secret or two he knew about Funghar spores, feeling a bit of Raine in every word. Rinoa commented on the sharp taste of Deling wines, the inability of the market to create distinctive, quality alcohol at a bargain price.

The taste of the conversation ran out soon after Rinoa, as if remembering just that moment, passed him a single printed page as he was just getting done with his steak.

“What’s this?” Laguna asked.

“I will be instituting the non-SeeD policy that I've mentioned to you in a few days. I wanted you to see the text before it became official.”

Laguna raised an eyebrow. Rinoa leaned back and patiently waited while he read through it. It was barely a paragraph long, but it was enough for him to set it down. He glared at his plate. He had lost his apettite.

“What do you think?” Rinoa asked.

“What makes you think that I will comply with this?” he asked, “That I will, as you say here, _cease_ my support or, what was it, oh yes, ‘face the consequences as anyone else will’?”

“I have your son.” Rinoa snarled, “And I didn’t harm him... yet.”

“You can’t kill him.” Laguna said, trying to keep his voice from shaking, “You won’t have any card left to play. I will have your head before his heart stops beating.”

“What do you take me for, a monster or an idiot? No. I won’t kill him.”

Laguna clenched his teeth in attempt to keep the words behind them.

“But killing him isn’t the only option. I said he hasn’t been harmed _yet_ , but that can easily change. It’s at my discretion. So, I’ll repeat my proposal-“

_When losing the war, win the battles._

“It’s a demand, not a proposal.” Laguna said.

Rinoa smiled.

“That’s right. You _will_ cease helping SeeDs by way of funding or equipment. And not just you, personally. Esthar will withdraw the support it has poured into the Balamb Training Facility and its occupants since the Ocean Garden, er, _sank._ ”

Laguna crossed his arms, “You had my son last night as well, and for every night before that for the past two weeks. What makes this demand any different from the one you made last night?”

“I changed my mind this morning. I will be referring to SeeDs not as mercenaries, but as terrorists instead.”

“You can’t be serious...”

“You don’t get it, do you? The perception here is that SeeD is a rogue force, too dangerous to be supported. Plus, if Esthar doesn’t withdraw support, you will have admitted to have taken part in the attempt on my life. I don’t think you want to be the man responsible for escalating an already sensitive situation.”

Rinoa leaned forward.

“See, unlike you, I’m prepared to go to war over this. SeeD, as it stands, is a force created to kill the sorceress, but the sorceress in this instance is the same woman who ended her father’s illegitimate rule, who, in two years, made a unified Galbadia possible. As it stands, I'm not the elected president of Galbadia - I _am_ Galbadia. The sorceress is under constant threat by the mere existence and SeeD, so, Galbadia is under constant threat. Unlike you, I could have Galbadia behind me in a heartbeat, Garden and all, if I simply went ahead with that declaration as it is.”

Laguna felt his hands become fists at his side.

Rinoa leaned back, “But it doesn’t have to be that way. That’s a rough draft you have there. I can tone it down, make it less ambiguous, not point fingers... it all depends.”

Rinoa stood up, and his retinue followed suit.

“Think it over, yeah?”

She left Laguna at the table, staring down the copy of her rough draft. He crumpled the paper up and slammed it down. It had been their idea to give her an illusion of power before taking it away... and now she had them cornered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "L'etat c'est moi" - "I am the state", uttered by Louis XIV, expresses absolutism on the part of the monarch, in that the ruler is considered the whole of "the state" and because of this, he or she reigns absolutely. Rinoa's utterance of "I am Galbadia" speaks to that kind of perception, in that she regards her power as absolute. I chose to have her say it to represent her growing arrogance, especially in her ability to manipulate public perception. This is because she managed to snatch power from her father's hands by pandering to the perception of him as an illegitimate tyrant. The whole scheme in "The Few Remaining Strands" pretty much hinged on her managing to force Caraway's hand into an election by popular vote, which resulted in her presidency. However, by the same token, here, she is showing that she is going to be using her public support to be a tyrant.


	9. Dejection

“Squall!”

Selphie jerked awake, her heart pounding and her body ready to strike. Panicked, she glanced around the room. The doors to the balcony were open and the gentle night breeze was floating the curtains. There was no light source except for ambient light from the outside, but Selphie didn’t need to see to know the mess.

She didn’t know what time it was.

A moment later, she didn’t give a fuck.

There was a pain in her throat, as if she had swallowed a bundle of razors and it had gotten stuck halfway down. Rubbing her forehead, she reached for the bottle she knew was on the bedside. Her hand found the cold glass and she grabbed it by the neck. She lifted the bottle to her lips and drank lukewarm water. When the bottle was spent, she set it down. There was another next to it. She drained that also.

Then, she looked around the bed and saw the other bottle, the one she had fallen asleep next to. She grabbed it and swallowed a mouthful of rich Estharian gin. It burned its way down her throat and gripped her stomach with merciless, cold fingers.

“Ugh...”

The t-shirt she was wearing was clinging to her skin, damp with sweat. She pulled it off and sat there, completely naked. The room was warm enough, but it was a bit too dark, if there was such a thing, so she reached for the bedside console. The small touch-screen block controlled everything in the room. She squinted, trying to keep the amount of light entering her eyes to a minimum. She adjusted the room’s luminosity to 40%, and the bathroom’s to 30%. Satisfied by the dim, pale blue lights, she took another large sip from the bottle. She stood up and paper crunched under her foot. She knew what it was, but couldn’t work with it. She zig-zagged across the carpeting, her toes digging into stray pages and found her way to the bathroom, bottle still in hand. She lifted it to see how much was left. About half a glass’ worth. Selphie knocked the bottle back. When she was done, she placed it on the floor next to the bathtub, next to a long line of gin bottles that she had been stacking there in rows three bottles wide.

She found her way to the sink and looked dead ahead.

There she was, that bitch. That dumb bitch with the sunken eyes and the circles underneath them. That fucking bitch with the messy hair, the lifeless stare, the swollen cheeks.

The dumb fucking bitch who spent half of her time mourning the death of the man she loved, because he was dead and she had known it ever since Elle had showed her that mind-fucking nightmare...

...the same dumb fucking bitch who exhausted the rest of her time crawling down gin bottles and rolling around on the blueprints and architectural specs of the Presidential Mansion that lay scattered across the floor...

...that same, useless piece of shit that had failed to save Zell... failed to save Squall... failed to save Trabia... failed to save anything... or anyone...

“Fuck you.” She spat at the mirror.

Selphie returned to the room and went to the fridge. She found that she had two bottles left. Fuck it, she’d order more. It was on Laguna’s credit, and she’d be damned before she could give a fuck. Another bottle and she might forget for a while, drink that shit down. Drink all of it down.

She returned to the bed and sat up, legs crossed, and proceeded to drink, filling the space of where used to be a conversation with a sequence of sips. It didn’t take her long to half the bottle, and it was a large gulp past it that there was a knock on the door. Selphie swallowed and stumbled to the door. Without even asking who it was, she pressed her palm against its surface and watched dully as the door scanned her palm.

The door hissed open, flooding the room with light. Selphie squinted and scoffed before turning away, leaving Brea standing at the threshold. Selphie walked across the sea of papers and found the armchair by the balcony. There were two, separated by a small, round coffee table. Selphie put the bottle down and glared at her guest.

“Well?” she said.

Brea knew that she was at a tipping point. Every night since the operation, she had come to check up on Lieutenant General Tilmitt only to be left standing on the hallway after weathering insults. She had never been invited into the room before.

Determined not to take a pass or give Selphie time to change her mind, Brea walked into the room and the door slid closed behind her. She made her way around the bed, papers crunching under her boots, and found the armchair. Selphie, shamelessly naked and carelessly drunk, said nothing. As Brea tried to find the words, Selphie began to work her way down the bottle once again. After a while, it was Selphie who slurred out a word and broke the silence.

“So... whassup?” she asked.

“As in, sir?”

“Assss inn, the fuk’re youu doin’ here, again? Some nerve, comin’ here ‘very night...” Selphie scowled, “Every night. Like you got somethin’ to say. You don’t say anything, ya never say anything to me...”

Brea was silent. Selphie sighed.

“Why are you here, Brea?”

“For you, sir.”

Selphie threw her arms up, “Well take a good look, then!” upon not acquiring an answer, continued, “Ya want more? Ya wanna look deeper?”

Selphie stood up on wobbly legs, and demonstrated herself to Brea with a clumsy spin.

“Like what you see? Is it alright? Is it?” another mouthful of gin that gurgled her voice, “’sit okay?”

Brea couldn’t say anything.

Selphie screamed “Well _fuck you!_ Fuck you for runnin’ from them, and then comin’ here for what, for me? Ya don’t know, ya have no idea, you fucking...deserter! You coward! Ya don’t deserve to sit there, ya don’t deserve yer fuckin’ uniform, ya don’t deserve ta pretend yer fighting _anything_! You spineless fucking weak fucking _cunt!_ Who the fuck do you think y’are, comin’ here!?”

Brea clenched her teeth and bore it. Same as all the other nights. It’d be over when Selphie decided it was over and the insults, Brea had come to know, were the peak of the downward slope.

“Ya handed him over." Selphie said, her voice quivering, "On a silver fucking platter, ya handed him over to that _bitch_. Ya left him there for her to hurt, for her to... for her ta kill... Hyne...”

Selphie hung her head. Brea could hear teardrops hitting the carpet.

“Just get out.” Selphie said, “Get the fuck out. Don’t even know why you’re here...”

Brea stood up and waded through the crunching pages. Selphie went back into the room. When Brea got to the door, she peered over her shoulder. Selphie was standing there, naked, bottle dangling from her hand.

Brea decided that she couldn’t hold it back anymore.

“It was what he wanted.” she said.

Selphie didn’t react. Brea wondered if she had been heard. She decided to repeat it.

“It was-“

“What was what he wanted?” Selphie asked.

“That I get you to safety if he failed. Those were his exact words. I was only doing what he had asked me to. Not ordered to. Asked.” When Selphie didn’t say anything to this, Brea continued, “He said that he could bear the thought of failure enough to survive, but he couldn’t bear the thought of you being hurt by it. He said he wouldn’t have it.”

Selphie was still silent. Brea continued.

“I did what I did because he asked me to... and because there was nothing else I could do. I did the only thing I thought I _could_ do, what _I_ thought was right. If that makes me a coward, a spineless, weak cunt like you said, so be it. But there is something else: the trap wasn’t for us.”

Selphie shifted them. Fidgeting a bit uncomfortably, she raised her arms to at least cover her breasts.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Selphie asked.

“After I put you to sleep, I didn’t get us out. I didn't escape. The Sorceress let us leave. She wanted _him._ The trap was for him.”

Pause.

“...get out.” Selphie said.

“Yes, sir.”

Brea walked. Selphie was left in the quiet room, surrounded by the pieces of every single half-baked plan she had been trying to cook up, bottle of three-quarters drowned sorrows in hand, her hands sliding against her bare skin. In her head, she was playing every insult, every curse she had hurled Brea’s way in the past two weeks, the way she had listened to each and every one of them... the way she had just stood there and took everything she had thrown at her.

The bottle felt heavy in her hand, heavier than she had noticed before. She didn’t feel thirsty at all. She thought of Squall and, sobbing, began to cry.


	10. Deliverers

Selphie’s skin crawled at the feeling of warm, running water – each droplet trickling down raised a different hair. She ran the shower for what seemed like hours. The water, the shampoo and the soap gently washed away the gin, the long days, the lack of sunlight and the state of constant delirium. Her mind started to slip back into order as the water trickled down and pooled at her feet, and she was finally able to think clearly, despite the headache.

She finished her shower with a feeling of revitalization. She wiped the water vapor from the mirror with her hand and looked at herself. Bloodshot eyes, sunken and with circles around them, sunken cheeks... she looked beaten.

But she wasn't. Not yet.

There’d be time to go over herself. It wasn’t what she wanted to do. She returned to the room and, treading over the pages strewn across the floor, reached the comm-station. She sat down, feeling the water dripping from the strands of her hair. She tapped through the menus and located the call list. She called up Ellone’s room. For a few moments, the phone icon on the screen rotated, and then, Ellone’s face appeared on the screen. She looked tired and miserable.

Ellone glared at her for a few moments, as if trying to make sense of this sudden call.

“ _Selphie..?”_

“Hello, Elle.”

_“Where were you?”_

“In my room... in _our_ room.”

_“How are you now?”_

“Seen better days. You look terrible.”

_“I’ve seen better days, too.”_

“I’m sorry.”

_“It’s not your fault.”_

Selphie hesitated.

“Elle, I wanna try again.”

Ellone sighed in relief.

_“I was getting worried about Brea.”_

“Brea?”

_“She’s the only one constantly going under. All the others only tried once.”_

Selphie bit her tongue. She, too, had only tried once and what she had experienced... she had emerged having drawn her conclusions and with no intention of going under again. She shivered at the thought of someone repeatedly subjecting herself to what she had gone through.

“I wanna try.” Selphie repeated, “Try again and make it this time.”

 _“I’m not sure if we will... I’m not sure that_ I _can.”_

“I have to try, Elle. I thought what I saw was proof that he was dead. I never considered another possibility. I owe it to him to try again.”

Ellone sighed.

“ _...okay. I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”_

“I’ll see you.”

The screen went blank.

Selphie got up and went to the wardrobe. The articles of clothing that she put on slowly draped over her a sense of grounding. Fresh underwear, her undershirt. The white, button-up shirt. And then, her uniform, the uniform of the Lieutenant General, the Second War veteran. The uniform of a soldier in the Third War. When she finished securing her tie in place, she felt at home.

She got out of her room and felt that the hallway was a completely foreign location. The strange colors (turquoise and gold and purple, just like the rest of the palace), the peculiar way that it seemed to go on in both directions, the chillier temperature... She felt needlessly exposed. But she didn’t want to keep Ellone waiting, so she made her way down to the kitchens first and acquired her usual sandwich, not wanting to go down on an empty stomach on top of her hangover. However, something had changed. The ingredients were the same, the taste was approximately the same (it was less watered down by copious amounts of gin) but it was somehow texture-less, tasteless. She ate half of it before deciding that throwing up all over the carpet wasn’t such a good idea, and discarded it in the nearest garbage bin.

Selphie went down to the lab and found them waiting. Ellone was sitting on her recliner, rubbing her temples. Kiros, Ward and Mir were all in attendance, but there was also a woman there. Her white, well-starched outfit and Estharian red cross told Selphie that she was a nurse.

Upon seeing Selphie, Kiros and Ward smiled gently in greeting, and Mir saluted her. Selphie could only answer with a weak smile. The anticipation of what was to come made her hands cold.

“Elle... are you okay?” Selphie asked as she settled into her place.

“It’s just a headache.” Ellone said, “It’s nothing.”

Ward let out a hum.

“It isn’t _nothing._ ” Kiros said, “Today will be your last attempt for a while. You need to rest, Elle.”

“I’m fine.” Ellone said, “Can we please just get on with this..? I didn’t get much sleep last night...”

Selphie thought that she hadn’t gotten much sleep any night lately.

“Are you ready?” Ellone asked.

Selphie leaned back and the recliner shifted until she was almost lying down completely. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding. She thought of Squall.

“I’m ready.” She said.


	11. Decussation

* * *

**DECUSSATION POINT**

* * *

_There’s a steady sound in the background, a sharp, subdued screeching pulsating. The orchestra of noise is vast. There is a hissing, lazily slithering up and down. There are other sounds – steady breathing. A fingernail absent-mindedly tapping on metal, the cavernous echoing of the other sounds and then there’s_ the gentle sound of violins gliding over the steady rhythm of the contrabass, scattering into the air, riding on the wings of flutes and clarinets. The familiar, warm air of ball room lights and bubbling champagne. The murmur of idle conversation is heavy in the air and _the room is cold and even as his body sleeps, he shivers, he feels the cold run through his skin but_ the champagne, the fifth glass, is slightly warmer than the rest, and its his fourth glass, because he knows that he has to get as drunk as possible as soon as possible to do what needs to be done.

He turns, sees her coming _and his body tenses up, his hands curl into fists and his nails dig into his palm. He’s happy to see her there, he’s happy and he’s more afraid than he’s ever been in his life because_ he loves her, he loves her more than anything, she completes him. She fits into the missing parts of him, fills her own gaps with him. They fit, like puzzle pieces, like _how his lower and upper jaw lock, teeth pressed hard against one another, in anticipation of what will happen,_ in anticipation of what must happen, _what can never happen,_ what can’t not happen.

He loves her and _she’s killing him._

* * *

**DEFEAT**

* * *

Squall woke up to a gridded ceiling. Gun metal, dull and still. He tried to lift his head, but found that it was being held by a cold strip of metal. He felt a thin, yet relatively soft surface underneath him, but his wrists and ankles were bound. He wasn’t naked, he could feel a t-shirt and underwear, but the rest of his clothes weren’t there.

He could also feel the pricking of needles and IV connections on both of his arms. There were small, irritating points on his skin, but he couldn’t see.

“Welcome back.”

Rinoa’s smiling face entered his field of vision. Squall clenched his teeth with disgust. He just wanted to reach out and strangle her, but he couldn’t move. In the two seconds it took for him to accept that he had been beaten by her, he killed her a thousand times in his head.

“Where am I..?” he asked.

“Under the mansion. My father built this panic room after Vinzer Deling handed him the title of Field Marshal, to use if whatever.” Rinoa said.

“We didn’t see anything like that when we-” Squall began, but Rinoa interrupted him.

“From what you told me, you were in a hurry that time.”

Squall raised an eyebrow at her good-natured manner. “Why am I still alive?”

Rinoa smacked her tongue. “You SeeDs... just because you are out to kill your enemies, doesn’t mean your enemies will be out to kill you. Not by default.”

“It didn’t need to be this way. We didn’t need to be enemies.”

“Sure we did. Like I told you, we’re bound to meet again. You SeeD, me Sorceress... I also told you not to hesitate.”

“I didn’t. If it wasn’t for your fucking red magic, I...”

Rinoa threw her head back and laughed. “Red magic? Really?"

"What..?"

Rinoa shook her head, amused, "With all you know on witch-craft and sorceress lore, you still bought it?”

Squall’s eyes widened.

“There’s no red magic, Squall. I thought it’d be believable, since blue magic exists... no. There is no red magic, only blue and black, though _black_ is the same as _pure_.”

“Then what the...”

“That, you’re about to find out.”

Rinoa disappeared from sight. Squall heard the clicking of buttons, the spooling up of devices that he couldn’t see. He couldn’t help but feel a mounting panic at the unknown – what now?

“See, Squall, while you were sleeping, I took the time and the Centran ink to paint some pretty runes around your head. Black magic runes, some very simple stuff. The ink’ll last for a few weeks, and it will work like a charm.”

Squall struggled to keep his voice from shaking.

“What are they for?” he asked.

“Wanna know a secret?” Rinoa said as she leaned over him, “Black magic, like anything magic ever is, is mental. You will it, it works. It’s no different than junctioning spells – you know how it works, so you work it. Same here, although I will be getting a little help with this particular one...”

Squall pulled against his restraints to no avail. He felt Rinoa’s hand on his forehead, thin fingers gently pressing against his skin.

“Relax. You’re going be staying put for a while.”

Squall felt his eyelids start to close, his body was drifting... in the distance, Rinoa was saying something...

“We have all the time in the world now...”

* * *

**DESPERATION**

* * *

...there is no time, there is no time, there is never time, never enough room to move, enough time to move, it’s not enough, it’s never enough he said and then he pulled the trigger, pulled the trigger and fell, fell and died, he died by my side and I just want to join him, I just want to be dead with him because there is nothing here, nothing at all and it’s just not enough

Hair scattered across the stone the hard wood floor the carpet the broken glass and there’s blood in your hair, oh Hyne

Dead eyes, green eyes, you don’t see me, why won’t you see me why won’t you look at me

Broken hand, bones shattered, skin torn, and I hold it and it slides away, you don’t touch me, you don’t feel me with you, without you

Oh Hyne what have I done, **_what have I done!? What did they make me do!?_**

They made me do it, I didn’t want to, I just needed to, I just

But it’s the only way, don’t you see?

They will kill you, they will destroy you and I can’t watch it one more time, I can’t, I can’t do it again, I won’t, so I take my weapons, I take my war and I give you a gift, I slit your throat, I pierce your heart, I tear your lungs apart, I decapitate you, I rip your chest open and I scatter you across the floor, and for those two seconds it takes you to die, you look at me, and I hope to see forgiveness in your eyes but you don’t see me, you don’t look at me you won't you can't you

Your blood is in my hands. Your blood is in my hands.

There’s blood in your hair.

I killed you. I kill you. I will kill you.

It’s better off this way, you’re better off dead quickly – I’ve seen what they will do to you, what they have done to you, I can’t bear to see it again, I won’t and there we begin, you stand, you smile, you breathe, I speak, say your name, I kiss you, I kiss you, I kill you I fucking kill you **_I_** **_fucking love_**

**_die_ **

**_die_ **

**_die_ **

**_die_ **

**_die_ **

**_die_ **

**_die_ **

Selphie drew in a sharp breath and screamed, felt the panic, the absolute terror of it all reverberate in her throat, twist around her tongue. A pair of arms held her fast, and she screamed again, and again, and again, unable to stop, unable to contain it.

“I’ve got you, sir!” a familiar voice said, “I’ve got you, you’re back... I've got you...”

Selphie grabbed handfuls of her uniform’s jacket and tried to stifle her own screams, to swallow them down. She felt her jaw ache from grinding her teeth and slowly, very slowly, began to reel herself in.

By her side, Ellone was holding a bloody handkerchief to her nose, coughing and trying to slow down her breathing. The nurse was by her side, with one hand on Ellone’s back, carefully observing her.

“Are you both okay?” Kiros asked, his voice concerned.

“I’ll... gimme... just...” Ellone panted.

“Selphie?”

Selphie glared at Kiros.

“Selphie, are you alright?”

Selphie gently tore herself from Brea's grasp. She took a moment to slow her breathing and compose herself.

“I’m fine." Brea was hesitant to let go, "Thanks, Brea... I’m more than fine, I..."

"There will be no more attempts," the nurse said, "I need to get Miss Loire to the infirmary."

Selphie took a deep breath and said, "We don't need any more attempts."

"You sure?" Kiros asked.

Selphie nodded,"I know where Squall is.”


	12. Demarcation

Laguna put the receiver down and found that he had been holding his last breath in. He exhaled with a sigh and felt his lungs pleasantly deflate. He felt like he could cry, laugh, scream, dance and mourn at the same time. The amount of super-charged emotion was overwhelming and Kiros had only said one sentence and had changed everything.

_Ellone found your dog tags today. In the last place you'd look, as always._

Kiros using their old cipher, approx, was all that contained him at that moment. It meant that they would have waited longer, but thought he should know. It meant that he shouldn’t move accordingly, that he should finish whatever he had to do like nothing had changed and then return to Esthar.

Laguna went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He had to calm down, he had to appear as distraught as he had been last evening, worrying about Rinoa’s next move. He went to the wardrobe and pulled out his navy blue suit. One of Kiros’ many good ideas, to pack several suits for whatever. He paired it with a light blue shirt and a navy blue tie with gray stripes. He checked himself in the wardrobe mirror. He looked just like the President, nothing more and nothing less.

He packed his things and phoned the lobby to patch his call through to the embassy. Trying to keep himself contained, he asked that they have his hovercraft ready to go as soon as possible, which, they told him, would be within the hour. He noted that they should inform the President. After all, wouldn't want her to think that he had left without saying goodbye.

Before venturing out, he took a moment to compose himself. He couldn’t go out there as he was jumping out of his skin. It wouldn’t fit his disguise and it was crucial that they suspect nothing. He took the time it would take for the reception to call him about the President’s limo waiting for him in front of the hotel to pace around the room that had, one night, changed his life.

He thought of Julia, and apologized to Raine for going back there. If it hadn’t been for that strange night in this very room, he would have been a different man. He would have contented himself fighting the First War, coming to Deling on leave and listening to her play, fantasizing about a different life, one with her, from the safe distance of his booth. He would have thought himself a soldier, another name in the statistics, machine gun in hand and pipe dreams in mind.

That night, talking to her, talking _at_ her, he had discovered the strange incompleteness of those he adored. He had gone off to Centra with one of her tunes on his tongue, often thinking that he would return to her, return for her. He had discovered in that thought that he wasn’t a soldier, had never been one. The war he was fighting wasn’t his war, the actions weren’t his own, and he would return to tell Julia all about it. He would listen this time, he would let her do the talking and wouldn’t touch the wine; well, okay, so maybe just one glass and that would be it.

But fate, it seemed, had seen fit that he end up in Winhill, under the care of the woman he would one day love and would always regret not being able to stay with. The war had never ended and though he had never been a soldier, he had never been able to stop fighting, either.

Now, standing in the same room that everything had changed in all those years ago, he felt tired of fighting. He felt old.

“How did we end up here, Raine..?” he asked out loud. He imagined what she would say. He smiled.

The phone rang. The reception told him that he was all set. Laguna took his suitcase and went down. He bid a very confused receptionist farewell and walked out of the lobby to find a black limousine waiting for him. The valet opened the door as he approached. He smiled and squeezed a random bill into his jacket’s breast pocket and got in.

President Heartilly, in a dark gray pinstripe suit and smiling, was sitting on the opposite seat from him, next to the Field Marshal. Laguna couldn’t help but cringe at the Field Marshal’s scars – the left side of his face was a mangled up mess. He seemed to recall that he was a different man once, during the Second War. How he had come to support the new incarnation of the same recurring enemy, Laguna didn’t know. But everybody made their own choices, and this, apparently, was his.

“Mister President.” Rinoa said in greeting.

“Madame President.”

“I think you’ve met Field Marshal Kinneas before.”

Laguna could almost laugh at her continuing attempt to appear as if she could strong-arm him. Being a politician had taught him one thing that being a soldier had tried to teach him otherwise: the show or exercise of brute strength quickly became displays of futility when pitted against a collection of different strengths. But he let her.

_Give her the illusion of being powerful, then take it away when you have the chance._

“How do you do?” Laguna asked, but acquired no response from the scarred Field Marshal.

“So, Mister President... I see that you are leaving.”

“I’ve stayed for too long.”

Rinoa pursed her lips. “Debatable.”

Laguna nodded. “Very much so.”

“Have you given any thought to my... proposal?”

“I have, but what I think of it isn’t important. Without the Parliament signing off on this, I can’t do anything.”

“Mister President, I’m sure that a man of your position and talents can be persuasive. More than I can be, and we both know that I can be very persuasive.”

“Believe me, the thought of any harm coming to my son is more than I can bear.” Laguna said, doing his damndest not to smile, “And I will do everything in my power to prevent that from happening. I will bring your proposal to the Parliament, and explain your justifications. That’s the full extent of what I can do. That’s my line in the sand.”

“I’m sure you will find a way. I have read up on your history, you have quite a knack for finding your way out of jams.”

“It’s often been said.”

“This isn’t any different. I do need a time frame, though.”

“I can’t vouch for how fast or how slow it will go. A couple of weeks, at least.”

“You’ll have one.” Rinoa said as the limousine stopped in front of the Estharian Embassy, “That is, if you want to take part in this.”

“I’m telling you,” Laguna said, trying to sound a bit desperate, “I can’t guarantee that Esthar will act how you want them to act.”

The car door opened once again. Laguna took his cue.

“Then for now, safe journey, Mister President.” Rinoa said, “I’ll be in touch.”

Laguna got out of the car and the limousine drove off. He chuckled and then, throwing his head back, started to laugh.


	13. Denouncement & Revitalization

* * *

**DENOUNCEMENT**

* * *

Selphie shuffled her heels on the ground impatiently, as if that would bring Sir Laguna’s hovercraft around faster. She was standing next to an apparently infinitely patient Brea, and the seemingly ever-present retinue of Kiros, Ward and Mir. She knew that the others were waiting for them in the War Room, their avoidant tension having been released with the news. Selphie had told them that it was good news, but had saved it for the meeting later on.

_Because we need to get our heads in the game, we have a war to fight._

Selphie stole a glance or two at Brea, who showed no emotion. She was as stoic as Selphie ever remembered her to be, standing next to her and quietly smoking. Selphie hadn’t seen her smoke before, that was different, but otherwise, this looked to be a regular day at the office for the General’s aide. Selphie bit her lower lip. There was simply no other way, and she knew it.

“I owe you an apology.” Selphie said, “Hell, I owe you a hundred. But I thought one would be a good start.”

Brea appeared to consider it.

“I should have picked another time to fall to pieces.” Selphie said, “Shoulda kept a level head. Shoulda done a lot of things, but there was one thing I shouldn’tve done, and it was to take it out on you.”

Brea took a drag from her cigarette.

“I had no right to say any of what I did.” Selphie said, “Any of it. I’m sorry. You were only doing what needed to be done.”

Brea didn’t say anything. Selphie decided to go all out.

“And I know that you hate me for Trabia, but I can’t apologize for that. After this, after Deling, I’m done trying to justify myself for what happened back at that missile base.”

Brea sighed.

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Granted.”

“I don’t hate you for Trabia.” Brea said, “I don’t think anybody does. You’re the effigy everyone burns, because it’s easier to blame someone than to accept that it simply happened, that it could just as easily have been Balamb.”

It was Selphie’s turn to listen.

“As for everything else, sir, I really don’t know what to say. I... don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve most of what you said.” Selphie saw that Brea’s hand had curled into a fist, “I am not a coward. I stood by him, and you, and I intend to continue. It’s my duty not just as the General’s aide, but as a SeeD. I think I’ve earned my uniform, not just before or during the Second War. I just...”

Selphie bit her tongue. Now wasn’t the time for her to speak.

Brea stomped out her cigarette. “I just didn’t know what else to do. I don’t know if that makes me weak or unfit to stand here.”

“He once told me,” Selphie said, “, that you were a shot in the dark. That you were the most random choice he ever made. That doesn’t make you strong. That doesn’t make you suitable.”

Brea looked daggers at her, but Selphie continued.

“It makes you _right._ You don’t have anything to prove to me, or anyone else. You never did.” She hesitated, but what the hell, “I thought he was dead. What Elle showed me, made me believe that he was dead. I couldn’t handle the thought. I... buckled. You didn’t.”

“There was nobody else, sir.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You were the one who found him, sir.” Brea said.

Selphie thought of Ellone, who was in the infirmary of the Palace, sedated and pumped full of painkillers.

“I guess it came down to one thing: I did what I had to do. All it took, really.”

“All we can give, sir.”

They didn’t say anything further. They waited. It didn’t take long for Laguna’s hovercraft to appear in the distance and approach slowly, expanding from a thin, gray point to a full vehicle floating down the helipad. The hatch went down and Laguna, loosening his tie and appearing very tired despite the early hour, stepped out.

“Sir Laguna!” Selphie near-screamed.

“Mister President.” Brea saluted him.

“I heard you found him.” Laguna said.

“Glad your approx isn’t rusty.” Kiros replied with a smile.

* * *

**REVITALIZATION**

* * *

On their way to the war room, Laguna paired with Kiros to discuss some basic foreign policy concerns that had emerged during his brief stay in Deling. Kiros quickly dismissed his worries, repeating an old proverb that _worries meant for tomorrow has no place in today._

Quistis, Seifer and Xu were waiting in the war room, all in full uniform, all eager. Selphie settled into her usual spot and felt as if none of them had ever wandered off into their own distresses for the past two weeks. But she saw differences, especially in Quistis: she was standing with a cane now. Selphie also noticed her closed fist, although looking slightly better, was still a closed fist - reminding her that they were there for a reason.

“What was the news that you just wouldn’t tell us unless we came?” Quistis asked to set things off.

“Elle was right. Squall is alive.” Selphie replied and watched the sentence travel through the room, “He’s being held in a panic room under the Presidential Palace.”

“Why did we fail to reach him through Ellone before?” Quistis asked.

“They’ve done something to him." Selphie said, "Black magic, Rinoa said. But he’s alive and, far as we know, physically unharmed. But that’s not a constant.”

“Well, we’ve already memorized the blueprints, and I don’t remember seeing a panic room.” Quistis said.

“It could have been left out in purpose.” Seifer suggested.

“Miss the obvious, why don’t you.” Xu said, “It wouldn’t be in the blueprints if Caraway added it after the fact.”

“Even if." Selphie waved her hand dismissively, "That still leaves us with one giant problem. We will need to take the Mansion to retrieve him. With Rinoa there, it's not going to be easy.”

“Even if we knew exactly where the panic room was...” Xu said, running a hand through her hair.

“There’s only one man that can help us with that.” Laguna said, “The man who put it there. Fury Caraway.”


	14. Reminisce

Cupola had always reminded Caraway a bit of his impressions of Balamb. Cupola was a quiet coast town, painted with vibrant colors, drenched in the smell of salt water and hot stone. It was a place of perpetual calm – even in the days of the First War it had remained a safe haven, exempt from the violence engulfing the continent. There was a phrase Caraway had heard many times during his tenure as a lieutenant: making Cupola. It was the dream of many soldiers who hadn’t made it out of the war alive to make it here and settle down, live in peace and away from the profession that would eventually take their lives. Caraway, too, had loved the thought of making Cupola, and one of the first things he had done upon striking a bargain with Vinzer Deling had been to buy the summer home.

It had been the home of his dreams, his and Julia’s – to retire one day, by which point they would have gotten old, and would want nothing more than to spend the rest of their days feeling less alone in the company of each other.

Caraway went to the fridge and took out a beer. He went out to the porch. Straw armchairs, sitting at an angle as if aiming for the center of his front yard, occupied both sides. Caraway took his usual place on the right one. There was a radio on a low, round trestle next to his seat. He took a sip from his beer and put it down. He fiddled with the radio’s controls, moving through wordless static until he managed to catch speech.

“ _...sed to release any details, but repeated that Esthar’s reluctance to sign off on the policy could indeed be seen as a sign that the rogue terrorist group might have had sympathizers in or even drawn support from Esthar. In response, President Loire has called the parliament into session to discuss President Heartilly’s proposal.”_

Caraway shut off the radio and took a large sip from his beer. He sighed.

Rinoa.

Rinoa, Rinoa, Rinoa.

Caraway wasn’t sure who was to blame for her, exactly. For his part, he had been absent: too preoccupied by keeping the barely-functional machine of Galbadia going, the insatiable appetite of Vinzer Deling managed and keeping Timber in his grasp to give her all the things her mother could. Of course, this had never excused Julia completely ignoring the need for Timber to remain under Galbadian control and filling Rinoa’s life with citizen’s groups, propagandists, old Maniacs types...

Caraway had often wondered, as he did now, if his life could have taken a different, better turn if they hadn’t decided to have a child. At the time, he had believed it to be what Julia wanted, and why not – any soldier who had managed to reach his age at the time would want nothing more than to start a family. But no matter how he looked at it, Rinoa’s birth appeared to have changed it all. Their dreams of Cupola, of growing old together.

Maybe it hadn’t been the child’s fault. Maybe she had only shown to them what had already been there to begin with.

Rinoa had, whether she had meant to or not, become an instrument in their conflicts. Caraway had occupied Timber as a move towards unifying Galbadia, intending to bring the rest of the city-states under the leadership of himself and Vinzer Deling. Having been born and raised in Timber, Julia had taken this to be a personal affront. It reminded her, Caraway had always thought, of the love she had talked about, that man of hers that had been sent to war and had never returned. The war had taken the driving force behind her singing, and now the war was taking her home. Worse still, her husband now _was_ the war.

Gradually, their relatively peaceful lives had slowly descended into one of constant battle, with the smallest things serving as surrogates for their differences. Rinoa, Caraway had always noticed, was just another surrogate. Their fights had come to be shaped by how far they could push before they’d deem the environment unsuitable for Rinoa.

So they had pulled. He had pulled Rinoa to Deling, chained her to the Mansion, too afraid that those he had brought under his thumb would try and wriggle out by using her. He had also kept her in Deling to remind Julia that they still had one common ground on this goddamn planet, and it was their little girl.

In retaliation, Julia had pulled Rinoa to Timber, to the Maniacs, to the citizen groups and resistance literature, to teaching her how awful her father’s actions had been. It had worked on a level that Caraway just didn’t want to believe she had planned it to. Then Julia had gotten sick, the symptoms unknown to any doctor at his disposal. He hadn’t been able to do anything and had to weather Rinoa’s constant, desperate demands that he do something about it.

Rinoa had ended up blaming him for her mother’s death.

Julia’s passing had driven a wedge between them that he’d hoped he’d be able to bridge, but the formation of the Forest Owls, and finally her pulling SeeD into her schemes had been the end. It hadn’t taken Rinoa long to pull of that Timber rally stunt after the Second War had ended, even less time for the SeeDs that had helped her get there to intervene... the point where she had quite good-naturedly asked him to step down from the position of Field Marshal had been when Caraway had given up on any hopes of having some sort of a relationship with his daughter.

He had contented himself with having made Cupola, having happy memories of Julia and their life together to keep him company. The silent sway of the Cupola breeze, the cold, rich taste of his beer and the feeling of being humbled by his surroundings was enough.

Caraway saw a stranger approach his garden’s gate. He thought she might be lost, she looked out of place, wearing jeans and sneakers in a town that was usually too hot for anything that went below the knees. She was also wearing a tan, apparently light jacket, another item that told him that she either hadn’t been there for long or didn’t have Cupola as her target destination.

As she got closer, Caraway saw that she had lovely, shoulder-length red hair. He smiled and waved. She gave him a small nod in greeting.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Caraway.” She said.

“And a very good afternoon to you too...” he took in her face and something prodded him, “You look familiar... have we met?”

Brea nodded. “We’ve met, but we haven’t been introduced. My name is Brea Willings.”

“Ah.” Caraway said, “The voice of the survivors.”

“Congratulations on making Cupola.”

Caraway sipped his beer. “You know the phrase?”

“Galbadian recruits of the Ocean Garden used it, not to indicate a desire to come to Cupola, but to reach retirement age.”

“I supposed I’m lucky on both counts. So... I assume you didn’t come to ask about my health.”

“Afraid not, sir.” Brea said, folding her hands behind her back, “I came here to ask you about the panic room under the Mansion.”

Caraway felt his blood run cold. “How do you know about that..?”

“That’s not important.”

Caraway stood up. “Apart from those who built it, only two people alive know about that, and one of them is me. Tell me how you came by that piece of information.”

“Like I said, that’s not important.”

Caraway put his beer down. “It is important if you want me to tell you anything.”

“This is hardly suitable for yard-talk, so why don’t we go inside and discuss this?”

“I think not. I think you’ll leave now, and-”

Brea pulled out one of her pistols and aimed at his head.

“I wasn’t asking.” She said.


	15. Resolution

The parliament’s chambers were built in the manner of an amphitheater – three rows ascended from the floor and traveled around the room in a semi-circle, staring down at the central podium. The podium itself was two-tiered, the lower tier reserved for the session director and the scribe, the latter being an honorary position that served no functional purpose as all speech was recorded via microphones scattered across the chamber. The higher tier, smaller in diameter, was reserved for whoever had the floor.

Laguna adjusted his tie. Standing on the upper tier of the podium, he felt exposed. He reminded himself that this was, despite the irony of it, _his_ parliament. They were here to listen to him; to work with him, not against him. They were his peers, not his enemies.

Same difference, really.

After the idle chatter of assembled ministers relented to an expectant pause, Laguna cleared his throat and began.

“I have called the Parliament in session to speak about an emergent threat. There is simply no other way of putting this, because in becoming a formidable force, she is eager to step on the throat of anyone willing to act contrarian. The threat facing us today is President Rinoa Heartilly of Galbadia.”

Restrained murmuring and a few sideways glances followed. Laguna continued.

“You all know that I don’t want to go on and on about the finer points of the matter, so I will cut to the chase. President Heartilly demands that we cease all support of SeeDs and affiliated forces. This would include, for now, the Balamb Training Facility, but she’s not willing to stop there.”

Silence. He had their full attention.

“She further wants us to return every active SeeD in Esthar to the Balamb Training Facility, and to recall the equipment we have already stationed there, which would include their state-of-the-art training center. I got the impression that this was just the start, that she would, in due time, demand that we admit to sheltering the Ocean Garden survivors and... quite frankly, I firmly believe that she will take action unless we concede.”

An MP tapped on his microphone and cleared his throat.

“Was there anything else that the Madame President asked? Tea, perhaps?”

Laughter traveled the chambers. Laguna smiled. “In time, yes. She asked that I persuade you, however I can, to accept this proposal or that Esthar would be implicated in the SeeD attack on Deling almost a month ago.”

“Implicated, how?” the Minister of the Interior asked.

Laguna sighed, “President Heartilly will declare that Esthar has been supporting this terrorist group.”

The good-natured levity instantly disappeared. Laguna chose her words carefully.

“Rinoa Heartilly told me, in her exact words, that she was willing to go to war.”

“War with whom, Esthar?” the Minister of Foreign Affairs asked, “That’s ridiculous! Never mind that we possess the superior military, she would never sell the idea!”

“She already has.” Laguna said, “She has enough public support, and Dr. Odine, on her side. She has captured General Squall Leonhart and is currently detaining him, who knows what she’s-”

“Excuse me, Mister President,” the Minister of Estharian Culture said, “Are you telling us that the fact that your son is a captive is somehow relevant to the subject?”

Laguna clenched his teeth.

“I suppose not,” he conceded, “but the fact of the matter is, President Rinoa Heartilly’s extreme dislike of SeeD is becoming a problem.”

“That she believes she can have a say in the affairs of another sovereign nation is an affront enough.” Mir commented, “On behalf of the Chiefs of Staff, I can tell you that a war, while not our first choice, will be fought if it must be.”

“That is our final option.” Laguna said, “In the meantime, I would like to ask if what I’m trying to convey is apparent.”

Nods and murmurs of acknowledgement answered him.

“What is your planned course of action?” the Minister of the Interior asked.

“It isn’t a secret that what we are experiencing now is the Third Sorceress War.” Laguna said, “The First Sorceress War was finished by me and two men I have the honor of calling my brothers. The Second Sorceress War was won by a small group of SeeDs that some call the Fated Children. It is proven, to me, that wars with sorceresses aren’t won with armies or large-scale occupations or drawn-out battle plans: but with a few individuals willing to do what is necessary. Further, SeeD as a military force that exists _specifically_ to counter the possible threat of rogue sorceresses, so, I say we let SeeD move to the front lines. But for us to be able to do that, they will need their General.”

“Their General has failed before.” An MP said, “The responsibility of the Deling debacle falls to him.”

“Still.” Laguna said, “It isn’t just his leadership, or his skills as a tactician we need. He’s the one with the most information about the Sorceress and the most experience with her. Need I remind you that he has managed to overcome not one, not two but three Sorceresses so far? Besides, even if we were to put both of these aside, he’s a symbol for SeeD, the hero of the Second War.”

Nobody contradicted him.

“Any ideas, then,” an MP asked, “how to reacquire the General?”

Laguna grinned.

“A plan is already in motion.” He said and hoped they’d be satisfied with that. He saw that they were.


	16. Requisition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is graphic depictions of torture in this chapter. Be warned.

Once inside, Brea quickly surveyed the room. The living room contained a couch to her left, an armchair directly across from her, a coffee table in the middle (containing two empty beer bottles and a half-empty pack of cigarettes) and had a painting above the couch, depicting the Battle of Centra. She briefly wondered if it was an original. Beyond the living room, elevated and reached by two steps, was the kitchen area. The counter traveled along the length of the kitchen and curled back, forming a U. Frustrated, Brea looked around for anything she could use. The dining area was accessible through the kitchen, and containeed a dining table, Timber oak, surrounded by four metal chairs. Brea peeked at the backs of the chairs and found them to be bars, running vertically, five per chair.

She smiled.

“Sit down.” Brea instructed, pointing at the dining table with her gun. Caraway complied. With her free hand, Brea took out a pair of handcuffs and put them on the table.

“Cuff yourself, make sure the chain is held up between two bars. I’ll be watching.”

Caraway quietly did as he was told and secured the cuffs. Brea checked to see if they were, indeed, secure. When satisfied, she went to the living room and retrieved the pack of cigarettes. She sat down next to Caraway and lit one up. She inhaled deeply, slowly.

“You don’t mind, do you?” she asked.

“Knock yourself out.” Caraway said.

Brea smoked half the cigarette without saying anything. Caraway broke the silence with a chuckle.

“Do you find something funny?” Brea asked.

“You think you’re so intimidating, don’t you?”

Brea grabbed him by the hair and turned his head to face her. With a swift, careful motion, she pressed the still-burning cigarette onto the patch of skin right under his right eye, and held his head in place as he screamed and tried to turn his head. She let him go and threw the cigarette butt away before pulling another one from the pack.

“Hyne, what... the fuck...” Caraway said.

Brea lit her cigarette. “My orders are to extract information from you. How I extract it is entirely at my discretion.”

Breathing deeply, Caraway said, “You’re obviously new to this, so let me give you a piece of advice: if you want information, you need leverage. You have none.”

“I’ll burn your eyelid next.” Brea said, “Just after I’m halfway through this cigarette.”

She saw Caraway’s eyes fill with suspicion. Not fear, not yet. There’d be time for that later.

“Look, I can’t tell you anything.” He said.

“And why not? You’re able to speak, aren’t you?”

“Whatever you want me to believe you’ll do to me, I-“

Brea grabbed him by the hair once more. Caraway squirmed and tried to turn his head as Brea used the pinky finger of the hand holding the cigarette to lower his eyelid. Without hesitation, she pressed the cigarette down. Caraway writhed, trying to twist his neck away, but she was holding him in place. When she was done, she threw the butt in the general direction of the first one.

She stood up and left the room. Caraway, feeling like his entire eye had taken a beating, listened in. He could hear her rummaging through his home, methodically moving from room to room. She returned and placed wads of cotton, antiseptic, scissors, pliers, a hammer, a screwdriver, nails and a bunch of screws of varying length and width onto the table. Before Caraway could say anything, she went through the kitchen and returned with an assortment of knives, a bunch of forks, a salt shaker and a small dessert spoon. She then proceeded to untangle his phone cord, and cut it into lengthy, equal strips of two. She came around and tied his ankles to the legs of the chair.

Caraway raised an eyebrow.

“I understand about the rest, but what’s the spoon for?” he asked.

"They are there just in case."

"Just in case what?"

"Just in case I decide to gouge your eyes out."

“Listen, Ms. Willings-”

“Brea is just fine.”

“...Brea. You’ve made your point. You mean business, I understand that. But you must understand something – I _can’t_ tell you anything. That’s because I suspect you won’t just add whatever I tell you to the general list of things you’ve learned today. Am I wrong?”

“She has General Leonhart. We know that she’s keeping him in the panic room.”

Caraway appeared to be surprised.

“You didn’t know?” Brea asked.

“I have no access to official channels anymore, I’m... I didn’t know. Still...” he tried to see through Brea’s intent as she separated the dessert spoon from the rest of her tools and placed it square in the middle of the table. She hovered over the rest of her tools, her glance traveling over each one, “...I can’t tell you.”

“I follow my orders, Mr. Caraway.” Brea said, picking up the scissors, “So, no. You _will_ tell me what I need to know. Whether you tell me before or after is your choice.”

Brea placed the scissors down and picked up the pliers instead. She examined them as Caraway felt that he had to admit her psychological tactics were effective. His palms were starting to sweat.

“Look, Brea, whatever you want me to believe you’ll do to me, Rinoa will do tenfold if I gave you that information. There’s only one source it could have come from, and...” he trailed off when Brea put down the pliers, picked up a nail and the hammer, “...we can work something out. I can talk, I can give you details, but you have to give me asylum. I don’t want to stick around for you to fail a second time.”

Brea’s lips twitched into a smile.

“Asylum?” she asked.

“Asylum.”

“And you’ll talk then, and not otherwise?”

“I’ve just told you-“

“Good enough for me.”

“What’re you-“

“Do you know what I am, Mr. Caraway? What kind of weapon I use?”

“You’re a sharpshooter, aren’t you?”

“People assume that sharpshooting,” Brea said as she moved up to behind him, “, is all about distance. About killing at great lengths, avoiding the close-quarters, full-contact mess of other weapons. It’s not. Sharpshooting,” she knelt down to get closer to his hands, “, is about _precision._ A bullet in the right place can spell the difference between just another wound and death. The human body is an extraordinary structure, delegating the most amount of work to the tiniest, most random of places. It’s a sharpshooter’s job to know what each one is connected to.”

She picked his right hand, which was on top, and aimed for the topmost knuckle line of his index finger.

“Now wait, wait just a-“

Brea held the nail against his skin, which is when he started to twist around.

“Mr. Caraway, if I miss the first hit, I’m going to pick a different place, one that you can’t move away, so please be good about it and let me do it my way? You really don't want this under your kneecap.”

Before Caraway could react, Brea brought the hammer down and slammed the nail into his finger. Caraway screamed and his hand twitched, but Brea wasn’t done. She hammered into the nail again, again, and again, and heard the bone crunch as the sharp metal pierced right through it and came out the other side. Brea calmly returned the hammer to the table and retrieved the pliers.

“No... wait...”

Brea returned to the same finger she had driven a nail through. She knelt down and held his hand in place, and held out her target. The pliers would have to do, she supposed, she didn’t have time to get anything else. She clamped the edges around his fingernail, and purposefully gave pause. Caraway was about to speak when she pulled his fingernail free, snapping it into pieces and elicited a painful howl from him. She returned the pliers to the table and stood there, her back turned to him, contemplating her options.

She could hear Caraway moaning and trying to catch his breath.

“You’re really... going to do this..?” he asked.

“What gave you the impression that I wasn’t?”

“That’s... I can’t tell you, I told you why I can’t... listen to me, just...”

“Asylum, Mr. Caraway?" Brea's hand hovered over the scissors, "It has been considered, but you are simply not worth that much. I’m afraid it’s just you and me, and that’s all you’re going to get.”

Brea grinned as she picked up a medium-sized screw and the hammer. The spoon, gleaming and pure, was watching as she got to work.


	17. Reckoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is graphic depiction of a man who has been tortured. Be warned.

The dessert spoon, now full of malevolent meaning and sinister intent, was sitting there untouched; baring witness to the passing hours without an ounce of care.

“Well,” Brea said, withdrawing the knife’s tip from the excavation site of Caraway’s upper left canine, “I’ll ask you again. Tell me about the panic room.”

Caraway mumbled, trying to bring out words. His cut lips and mangled gums hurt even at breathing. He was swallowing a little bit of blood at every turn and trying to turn his tongue in his mouth enough to speak sent thin splinters of pain into his brain. Brea was down to only her bra now, and she was sweating profusely, but looked unaffected otherwise. She had gradually stripped throughout her work on him, discarding bits of clothing usually before switching to a different body part.

Apart from asking him about the panic room every now and again, she hadn’t even talked.

Just sitting there, Caraway could feel what, to him, felt like endless days of unrelenting torture. She had driven screws through each and every one of his toes, pulled out three fingernails from each hand, had inserted forks into seemingly-random parts of his body, had inserted shards of glass she had taken from broken beer bottles under his skin, embedded dinner knives into crevices under his kneecaps, driven the thinnest screws in between the nails and the nailbeds... every once in a while, she’d stop and pour salt onto some the wounds. Calmly, without a word. Her face, despite the occasional twitch of exertion, had remained a mask, impossible to read.

Caraway looked at the window behind her. It was dark outside. It hadn’t been full noon when she had come... what time was it? What day was it?

What life was it?

“Well, Mr. Caraway?” she said, wiping the sweat off of her brow, “I’m waiting.”

“Hrmf... I’m... I’ll... tell... I’ll tell you.”

Brea crossed her arms and waited.

“The p... panic room is... there’s a tunnel access in... in my office. A statue... that leads to the tunnels... the wall section... next to... when you first go down... that’s a hidden door... looks like a wall...”

“How will I know where it is?”

“Three bricks... missing...”

“And that door leads to the panic room?”

Caraway nodded.

“How do we enter the room?”

“It can be locked only... from the inside... it wouldn’t be... any good...”

“And that’s it?”

“You can... escape through the tunnels... after...”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Caraway.”

Brea turned to the table. Caraway’s eyes widened as her hand drifted over to the spoon.

“But... I told you...”

“You assumed that I’d let you go after you’d told me what I wanted to know. You’re wrong. You aren’t going to walk out of this room alive.”

“I’m not... lying...”

“I know you aren’t.”

“But... you...”

Brea was silent for a minute.

“The fact of the matter is, Mr. Caraway, I have my orders, like I said. My orders are to kill you once I’m certain you are telling the truth. We can’t risk you falling into the hands of the Sorceress.”

Caraway almost felt at peace, despite the pain. In a way, this had been coming for a long while. Years. Decades. Everything in his life seemed to lead up to this point. Ascent through ranks, the First War, Deling, Timber, Julia... and then Rinoa, the Resistance, the Second War, Rinoa’s presidency... everything else in between.

Finally making Cupola, after all these years, only to find it to be an empty dream, an incomplete joy.

_Julia..._

Had everything gone at least a bit right, maybe she would have been there with him, and maybe he wouldn’t be sitting handcuffed to a chair, every inch of his body aching... maybe, she would have grown old with him and comforted him and he wouldn't sit there, in agony and about to die at the hands of a girl not much older than his daughter.

But he had played his part. He had done what he had believed to be right at the time, and there was nothing he could do about any of that right now.

_And for everything else..._

“I’m... sorry...”

“It’s not your fault.” Brea said, biting back a tear.

Brea picked up the spoon. Caraway could only stare. In a way, for him, it was already over. But Brea put the spoon down onto the table and slowly got dressed instead. Once she had put on her jacket, she stood next to him. She pulled out her pistol and put it to his head.

“I’m sorry...” Caraway could manage.

Brea felt the trigger under her finger.

“Julia...”

Brea pulled. A single gunshot, muffled by the room, boomed. Blood and brain matter were splattered across the floor, and his chair tipped over. The body fell sideways and laid in the widening pool of blood. Brea stood there, listening to the silence that had crept in.

_It’s done._

She found herself unable to just leave him lying there, tied to the hell she had made out of the end of his life. Her gaze travelled to the table, where she had laid out her bloody tools, each of them she remembered using, remembered putting Caraway through. Something caught up in her throat and she stumbled, over the body and over to the fridge. She opened it and found a group of beers. She drank two of them, back-to-back, and placed the bottles on the kitchen counter. She opened the third, took a sip and her stomach lurched. She retched, turned her head and threw up all over the counter. She stood there, dry heaving, trying to keep standing.

Sweat was pouring out of every pore.

Her hands were shaking.

 _Not now,_ she thought, _not fucking now, Brea. You’ll fall apart later. They need you now._ He _needs you. Keep it together and you’ll make it out okay. Follow your orders. Do your duty._

She downed the third beer, took a fourth and exited through the dining room door. The night air was rich with moisture, carrying an insidious chill. She shivered and buttoned up her jacket, just in case. She drank the beer as she circled around the garden surrounding Caraway’s house and found her way to the front. Once she was out of the gate, Brea threw away the empty bottle and took out her com-link. She switched frequencies until she found the one she was looking for.

“Lion One, come in, Lion One, this is Brea Willings, do you read me?”

_“We read you, loud and clear, Ms. Willings.”_

“Mission complete. Ready for transfer.”

_“Roger that.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was initially longer and I did a very detailed run-through of all the things Brea did, but that threatened to be a bit too gonzo for where I wanted it to go, so you get the aftermath instead.
> 
> "Terra Incognita" is also the part where Brea started to come into her own in a big way and the aftermath of Caraway's death is, to me, one of the best establishing character moments for her. It also does double-duty to depict what SeeDs are trained in, or rather, how far a SeeD, the supposed "immoral monsters" of the world of FFVIII, can go for the sake of a mission.


	18. Response

A random, momentary distraction tore Rinoa away from the tome she was currently buried in. She had been alternating between editing the actual text of her policy and studying the particulars of black magic, specifically rune-related spells and what could be weaved from them. It didn’t matter if the runes themselves were actually drawn, but their sequences had to be recognized, they had to be carved into memory. It was like junctioning a spell for the first time, except the memory of using a rune sequence was created by itself.

She found it pleasantly strange. Even as she sat at her desk, scanning through the tome, she could _feel_ the aura of the spell she had woven around Squall’s head. She could tell just how strong or how weak each of the runes were, how they pulsed together and flowed into one another. She could also feel the ones she had drawn on his body, but those, only to keep bed sores and other unnecessary ailments at bay.

It set her teeth on edge. The power of it. The raw power, focused. In her hands.

It reminded her of Daniel.

She had stumbled blindly into his memories during a quiet, meditative moment. She had been trying to test if she could mentally reach him, reach his thoughts. Instead, she had stumbled all over a sheltered, closed off portion of his memories, blurred out and incomplete, half-devoured by what she would later remember to be the imprint of a Guardian Force. She had tried to gently probe them, but instead had caused them to randomly fire off. She didn’t know what had happened to him after that, but she had been satisfied with her ability to enter another’s mind.

Red magic. Huh.

_And they actually believed it._

She returned to the text. It was the obligatory passage about Hyne’s cast-off skin. Para-magic, it said, was only a pale imitation, a feeble shadow of what black magic -pure, undistilled power- could be. The word-conventions and categorizations of spells all pointed towards how limited para-magic actually was when compared to the boundless abundance of black magic. It brought a smile to her face, and she understood why a Sorceress was such a dangerous concept: virtually unlimited power was big enough to scare anybody.

Rinoa leaned back. Of course, there were other permutations of Sorceress’ powers – blue magic was one. The ability to conjur weapons and functional objects from nothing and use them as if the user were the machine they were tied to... Rinoa would kill to add that to her arsenal, but for now, she was contenting herself with learning as much as she could about her own branch. Things that Ultimecia knew, things that Edea had experienced... somehow these weren’t accessible by default – every book, every scroll she read felt like she wasn’t learning anything, just refreshing her memory. If only her own mental powers could work on herself... but then again...

The phone ringing brought her out of her thoughts. Rinoa picked it up.

“Yes?”

_“Madame President, this is Locke, the head of Dr. Odine’s on-site maintenance team.”_

“Yes, Mr. Locke?”

_“We have finished our diagnostic of the machine. It’s still working at optimal capacity. There seems to be nothing wrong with the hardware. As for the software, the diagnostics we ran show nothing out of the ordinary. By all means, the machine is working fine.”_

“And the runes..?”

_“They are all in place, still unexpectedly clear, and... uhh, are they supposed to glow?”_

“A little bit, yes.”

 _“Then nothing seems out of the ordinary. However, the logs show that Dr. Odine’s readings_ were _correct. The subject did lapse into complete unconsciousness for a period of seven minutes two days ago.”_

“And the machine wasn’t responsible?”

_“No. And from the looks of it, the runes weren’t either.”_

“Thank you, Locke. Make sure to lock the room on your way out.”

_“Will do, Madame President.”_

Rinoa placed the receiver down and sighed. She was certain that she was forgetting something, something important, and it was driving her mad. Something about the page she was on, about how Hyne’s power had fragmented, and that he had offered the humans his cast-off skin as a ruse, how, had many pieces of his power could exist, different things would...

The phone rang again.

“Hello?”

_“Madame President, we are calling from the Estharian Embassy to inform you that President Loire is inviting you to dinner in the Deling Hotel tonight.”_

Rinoa raised an eyebrow. She didn’t even know he was back in town. So soon?

“When?”

_“7:30.”_

Rinoa checked her watch. About half an hour to go.

“Thank you. I’ll be there.”

_“Thank you, Madame President.”_

Rinoa hung up and then dialed the communications office.

“ _Communications?”_

“Patch me to the radio of Field Marshal’s hovercraft.”

_“Yes, Madame President.”_

Rinoa waited as the connection went through. When it connected, the sound of static and background noise screamed in her ear.

_“What’s up, Rin? I’ll be on the helipad in ten minutes tops.”_

“Change of plans, sweetie. Use Deling Hotel’s roof. Loire’s invited us to dinner.”

_“What’s he want now?”_

“I think he’s coming around. Why else would he personally deal with me at this stage?”

_“Yeah, there is that. Alright, see you in a bit.”_

“We’ll meet out front.”

_“Will do.”_

Rinoa put the phone down and got up. She went straight to her wardrobe and observed her options. A shirt was a must, so she picked out a white one. It’d go great with her necklace – a thin, silver chain holding Squall’s Odineum ring. She settled on a black power suit, double-breasted, great to show off her waist. She wanted to look like a million Gil just for tonight – because Laguna Loire had either come back with news of his concessions (in which case she’d have to look overbearingly victorious) or, he had come back with news of his refusal to concede (in which case she’d have to look as intimidating as possible.) She undressed and got dressed quickly, gave her hair a quick brush and checked herself in the mirror.

Ahh, there she was. The woman that had Galbadia in her hands.


	19. Remediation

Rinoa and Irvine found Laguna with his advisors Kiros and Ward sitting at a random table, patiently waiting for them. Ward, upon seeing them, stood up with his hands in his robe’s sleeves. Kiros, for his part, did the same. Irvine appeared somewhat taken aback by this, but Rinoa smiled. She calmly walked over to the table and sat down. Irvine remained standing.

“Madame President.” Laguna said.

“Good evening, Mister President.” Rinoa replied, “Very nice of you to invite me to dinner.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure.” He turned to Kiros and Ward, “Guys, why’re you standing? I think we can all sit down now.”

Kiros and Ward complied without a word. Irvine followed suit.

“So... you’re the veteran of this place.” Rinoa said, “What’s good to eat?”

“This hotel has one of the finest restaurants in Deling. But specifically, if you have a taste for white meat, I could recommend the Chocobo fillet. It’s cooked with white wine, and usually comes with a side order of mashed potatoes. It’s a simple meal, more affordable than most others.”

“A soldier’s meal?”

“Maybe in a week or so after payday.” Laguna said with a smile.

Ward huffed. Laguna rolled his eyes.

“That wasn’t my fault, you know.” he said.

“It actually was.” Kiros said, “That was a three day leave. You were supposed to find a place for us to stay, and I don’t think we had the most expensive suite in the Deling Hotel in mind.”

“Beats the barracks.”

Ward chuckled.

“That wasn’t the point.” Kiros said, “You were just there to see Julia play.”

Rinoa raised an eyebrow at that.

“Yeah, so what?” Laguna said, “She played good music.”

“I don’t think that was the point either.” Kiros said, and Ward nodded in agreement.

Rinoa’s eyes narrowed and focused on Laguna. She was about to speak when a waiter came by to take their order. They busied themselves specifying what they wanted and how they wanted it, and the waiter, after paying his personal respects to Rinoa, slinked off to deliver the tickets to the kitchen.

“Now, onto more serious matters,” Laguna said.

“I’d like to wait for our food to arrive.” Rinoa said.

“As would I, but I prefer to discuss more pleasant things during dinner.”

Irvine smiled, tensing up his scars.

“Fine.” Rinoa said, “I assume you have news of what your parliament thinks of my proposal?”

“They’re difficult to persuade. Maybe it’s Esthar being a separate continent – they simply don’t understand why they should enact _your_ policy.”

“Did you tell them about the possible consequences of not following through?”

Laguna nodded. “I did. They didn’t believe me.”

Rinoa stopped her jaw from dropping. “...what?”

“They told me that you wouldn’t dare.” Laguna said.

“I wouldn’t?” Rinoa asked.

“No. You wouldn’t.”

She crossed her arms, “And why not?”

“Why would you want to risk all-out war with Esthar? That’s the question on everybody’s minds. It’s not a bad question.”

“Well, Mr. President, can I be frank?”

“By all means...”

Rinoa leaned forward, “I will burn this whole goddamn planet to the ground if I have to. If that’s what it takes. Because as long as there is SeeD, I will never be safe.”

Laguna shrugged, “I'm convinced. Maybe you should tell that to them.”

“It looks like I’m gonna have to, through my actions.”

“I think they just don’t trust a Sorceress.”

Laguna could almost smile at her reaction, but he held it back. He had hoped to stretch this conversation out, as much as he needed to give the others enough time, but now it looked like he wouldn’t have trouble at all.

* * *

The hovercraft descended into a clearing in the woods, its engines letting out gusts of wind. The small monsters, the Funghar and the Geezards darted into the trees, away from the landing mass of metal. Brea, watching from the treeline, waited.

The hatch on the side of the hovercraft opened and let Selphie out. She felt like she could kiss Sir Laguna for the black ops gear he had given to them – synthetic fabric, much like the body armor of soldiers, only completely invisible in shadow and so light that it almost felt like being naked. She was carrying a lighter flail. Seifer got out of the hovercraft after her, his new, lighter gunblade in hand, who was followed by Xu carrying a sword. Selphie instructed the pilot to be ready for takeoff any time, which was when Brea stepped forward. She was in full black ops gear, had both of her pistols in their holsters and was carrying a sniper rifle with one hand, and the rather large silencer on the other.

“So, what’s the plan?” Seifer asked.

“Brea gets to work first.” Selphie said, “She takes out the guards at the gate. We can’t risk the two guys roaming the helipad. Once those guys are down, we go in. The rest shouldn’t be a problem.”

“ _I think this is way too easy.”_ Quistis’ voice cracked in their ears, _“What if she’s inside?”_

“President Loire took care of that, sir.” Brea said.

_“Wish I were there with you.”_

“You are, sir.” Brea said, “Through me.”

“Alright,” Selphie said, “Let’s move. Brea, you’re up.”

Brea took point and briskly made her way through the trees. Upon getting a clear view of the entrance, she looked around for a suitable spot to set up. In the distance, the mansion, lit up by the projector lights scattered around its base, glowed yellow. The walls surrounding it expanded left and right and the arching gate had two Galbadians oldiers with rifles standing guard. Brea looked to the roof, but didn’t see anyone.

The silencer was slightly smaller than a suitcase, and had its own support bars attached to the front. Brea clicked on the button on top of it to open the latches keeping it closed. She gently released half of it, and reached in to move the barrel extension out. She slid the rifle into the silencer and connected the barrel-tip. After securing the length of the weapon with the latched lining the interior of the silencer, she closed it and set it down. She took out two bullets from her pouch and trapped one between the index and middle fingers of her right hand. The rifle, unfortunately, was a bolt-action. She drove the first bullet into the breech.

She laid down on her stomach and opened the cap of the scope. She adjusted the incline of the barrel, cursing the bulky silencer for limiting her movements. She surveyed her targets. They weren’t roaming –thank Hyne- and she figured that the distance between them was ten feet. If she was quick enough, neither one would be able to do anything about the death of the other.

She moved the crosshair to the head of the soldier on the right. She moved her finger to the trigger and placed the bolt in her spare hand.

Brea took a breath, held it in and pulled. The rifle jerked in her hand, the sound of the shot a mere whisper, and the first soldier went down. Brea quickly drew the bolt back and drove the second bullet in. Reposition bolt, take aim at the soldier just noticing that his comrade wasn’t standing, breathe in, pull. Another whisper. The gates were clear.

“All clear.” Brea said.

“Seifer,” Selphie said, “You take point. Xu and I will follow. Brea, you cover us.”

“Yes, sir.” Brea said, standing up. She drew her pistols.

“Let’s go.” Selphie said.


	20. Reentry

Seifer crossed the distance between the treeline and the mansion’s gates quietly, followed by Selphie, Xu and Brea. When they got to the gates, Selphie cast LVL4 Float on all of them, allowing them to gently glide up and over the wall, and then to descend quietly, all without breaking formation. Selphie dispelled them all, and once they hit the ground, they moved to the double doors.

Seifer checked, just in case, to see if it was unlocked. To his luck, it was. He was surprised that she’d just leave her back door open like this. He opened it up a crack and peered through the opening. He was expecting sensors, a trip wire, anything...

Nothing.

“It can’t be that easy.” Selphie said, “C’mon! Really?”

_“She’s not this stupid. She can’t be.”_

“Looks like she is, sir.”

“Alright, let’s move.” Seifer said and he slowly opened one of the doors. They snuck in and Seifer left the door slightly ajar. Just in case.

They quickly made their way down to the foyer. From there, they could hear the guards outside talking, about nothing in particular. Wary of the fact that maybe they could hear them too, they crept upstairs. Brea, Selphie and Xu spread out to check the rooms around the office while Seifer stood watch. All clear. They moved on.

They went into the office ready to fight, ready for a trap, for soldiers, for guns trained at them only to find an empty office. They all turned to Selphie, who was distracted by the study desk... or just by the sheer amount of text laid out on it.

 _“Can’t believe Rinoa left the interior of the mansion unguarded.”_ Quistis said.

“She didn’t maintain a heavy security, that is certain, sir.”

“Quist,” Seifer said, “Take it from me. She wouldn’t.”

“She isn’t untouchable, you know.” Selphie said.

“Tell that to her.” Seifer said with a smile.

Selphie went to the desk, to the mountain of texts, scrolls, books and tomes. She gave a brief glance to the amassed text, trying to see to their subject. She clacked her tongue.

“She’s been a busy little bitch.” Selphie said, “Check this.”

“These look old.” Xu commented.

Seifer picked one up and opened the title page. He chuckled.

“This one says it was published in the Holy Dollet Empire.”

“She’s been gearing up.” Selphie said, “Brea, set this thing on fire.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wouldn’t that put a damper on the stealth part of our stealth mission?” Seifer asked.

“ _Actually, it makes sense. She probably picked up on red magic through these things. Burning it all might put a limit to how powerful she gets. If they’re as old as you say, then they'd be irreplaceable.”_

"Alright, call me crazy, but don't we want any of this?" Seifer asked, "Not like these things grow on trees."

_"We already have a copy of each of these in the Garden. I'm willing to bet that she hasn't backed any of it up."_

"Alright, move." Selphie instructed.

_“I might not be able to contribute when you’re underground. Watch yourselves.”_

“Always.” Seifer said.

Selphie went to the angel statue on the corner as Brea picked up a crispy scroll. As Selphie gently pressed down the waiting hands of the angel and revealed the passage, Brea took out her lighter and lit the scroll up. It cracked as it burned, and Brea left it on the desk, standing next to one of the volumes with black, worn-out leather binding. Selphie pressed the statue's arm down, revealing the hidden passage.

“Brea, you’re up.” she said.

Brea took point and led them down the stairs. They emerged into the sewer tunnels and spread out along the walkway the best they could. Brea turned to the wall behind them. The wall went along the length of the tunnel before sharply turning right, marking one section of the crossway ahead. There were small, vertical protrusions of stone, like columns, separating the wall into sections. The one two sections over had three bricks missing on its upper right corner. Brea walked over there and scanned the panel. It appeared to be just like the other sections. Brea holstered her pistols and put both hands on the surface and started applying pressure along a straight line. When her hand hit the brick just next to the column, the wall wiggled. Satisfied, Brea pushed on that portion with both hands and the door turned around its center, revealing a passage. Brea could see stairs.

“This way, sir.” She said.

They descended the stairs, hugged tightly by the walls trapping the stairs in. It took two flights of steps for them to reach the chamber below. As they moved, they noticed that every sound they made appeared to be muffled and the small noises amplified in the enclosed, rectangular space.

The panic room was directly ahead of them. It looked like a giant safe built of gleaming adamantine, a thick cube that appeared to have been built into the walls surrounding it. A door wheel, thick and wide in diameter, stood in the middle of the side that was facing them. They moved quickly and all took hold of the wheel. After the count of three, they all applied their strength to make it turn, and the wheel rotated smoothly until the sound of the door’s inner latch releasing echoed in the chamber. Seifer and Xu pulled the door open. Selphie and Brea snuck in first.

Selphie froze. Her body simply locked down as the others entered the room and likewise stopped.

Inside of the panic room was almost clinically clean, all sharp surfaces and cold, clean metal. There was a sink on the far right corner, sitting next to a toilet bowl. Right across from that, on the far end of the left wall was a phone. There was a slight draft in the room, gently rolling in through the grates embedded into the ceiling. To their left, lining the wall, were two-story racks made of metal bars connecting to one another and holding up thick sheets of plywood. Monitors of different kinds were lined up on the racks, hanging wires, cables and tubes in the air, all feeding into _him_.

On the right side, Squall was lying on his back on an army mattress, eyes closed. He was naked except for his underwear. Trodes were strapped to various parts of his body, and there were several IV spots marked with strips of white medical plaster. There was an IV bag right next to the bed, feeding him, very slowly, a bright blue liquid.

“Holy fucking shit.” Seifer said.

“Hyne... what did...”

Selphie, trying to keep her steadily-rising panic under control, approached him. She carefully stepped over the tubes and wires, too afraid she might unhook something vital, and got to his side.

She couldn’t take her eyes away from him. His head... they had shaved his head. His scalp was decorated by runes etched in black ink. Selphie didn’t recognize them, but thought they were similar to rune-strings of more advanced spells. She reached out to touch him, but stopped herself short.

“What’s that thing?” Xu asked.

Three evenly-spaced strips of metal were running around his head, starting right above his eyebrows. The strips were connected to a crown, a metal halo. The halo was being held up by an arm with cables running around it. It all tied into a crate-sized machine sitting next to the monitor racks. On one side, there was a gridded screen and underneath it, a keyboard surrounded by different buttons and switches. The screen showed a steady set of different lines, all in more or less steady waves.

“I... I don’t know...” Selphie could manage, “We can’t... fuck me, we can’t get him out like this. We don’t know what any of this shit does. It might be...”

Seifer, going over each of the monitors connected to Squall, let out a "Huh." Brea, Xu and Selphie both turned to him. 

“Messenger Girl, can you get rid of the runes?” he asked.

“I can try.”

Selphie observed the runes. They didn’t seem to be tattooed in, just drawn. She licked the tips of her fingers and rubbed on one. Nothing. Centran ink, most probably. She decided to drown her confusion in her training. “This is a rune-string, a spell that she junctioned to him. I can dispel the runes individually, but...”

“There’s a catch, right?” Xu asked.

“If I don’t know which one begins the string and which one ends it, Rinoa would feel it. Maybe not so much at the first or second, but we’d be giving ourselves away.”

“What about the machine, sir?” Brea asked.

“That has Odine written all over it.” Xu said, “Knowing him, we could probably just pull the plug on it.”

“And you’re basing this on what, exactly?” Selphie asked.

“His most sophisticated technological achievement was Adel’s sealing chamber. Didn’t take much to stop it mid-operation, did it?”

“You’ve got a point. Okay then, you go at that. Brea, help Seifer. I’ll... get to it.”

Her hand was shaking slightly as she delicately touched one of the runes. Xu, next to her, was snooping around the machine, trying to find a way to cut power to it. Seifer was looking at the monitors, along with a slightly clueless Brea.

Selphie breathed in, concentrated and whispered _“Dispel.”_ The rune cracked, as if his skin was rapidly healing it, and dissipated. Selphie sighed in relief. She moved to the next rune, but her concentration was broken by Xu’s exclamation. She used her sword to cut down thick, snaking mess of wires and cables feeding into a circuit breaker hidden behind the machine. An electric crack spelled the end of the machine’s operation. Selphie quickly reached for the crown and pulled at it. It came off surprisingly easily.

“Got it. They kept him in pretty good condition.” Seifer said.

Selphie returned to her work on the remaining runes. She quickened her work, dispelling one after the other, but a clacking sound drew her attention away from the remaining two.

Seifer was behind her, casually unplugging everything.

_“Whatthefuck’reyoudoin!?”_


	21. Removal and Recusation

“Fucking relax. It’s Estharian medical tech, same that was in Quistis’ room.” Seifer said, pulling another cable, “I spent enough time there to know what each of them does. They’re monitors for his stats, nothing more.”

“Sir, wouldn’t doing that...”

Seifer shrugged. “Trigger an alarm or four? Yeah.”

“Brea,” Selphie said, “Watch the door.”

Xu went to join her. Selphie returned to dispelling the runes. Adrenaline was a potent dampener of her casting, and she was having a hard time keeping that in check. She forced herself to focus and got to dispelling the remaining elements of the string. Seifer, once he had finished unplugging the monitors, got to her side and started to pull the trodes away from him.

“I’m no medical expert.” He said, “But shouldn’t his muscles have atrophied a little by now? If anything, he looks... better.”

“I was planning to notice that later,” Selphie said, pressing her fingers on a rune, “Y’know, when we weren’t in the mouth of the fucking Hexadragon.”

“No need to get testy, Messenger Girl.” He said as he gently pulled the needle feeding him whatever was in the IV bag, “That’s it. We’re done.”

Selphie found the final rune on top of his head, in the middle of his bare scalp. Shuddering, she exhaled and dispelled it.

“Brea, how’s it look?” Selphie asked.

“Still quiet, sir.”

“Now, how the fuck are we gonna get him out?” Seifer asked, “We can’t just carry him.”

“Why not?” Selphie asked.

“Uhh, 'cause it’d slow us down?" Seifer said, "I want to be out of here as quickly as possible.”

“There’s an easier way.” Selphie said, “Not prettier, but easier.”

“Pretty’s overrated right now.” Xu said, "Whatever it is, do it."

“I know.”

Selphie gently stroked Squall’s cheek. She bent down and whispered, _“Float.”_

Squall’s body rose from the bunk, his limbs floating free, and he started to hover a few feet of the ground. Selphie got him by the arms and got hold of his shoulders.

“Get his legs.” She said to Seifer.

Seifer brought his legs together and took him by the ankles.

“Let’s go!” Selphie called, “Brea and Xu, you’re both on point!”

Xu moved forward, followed by Brea. Selphie and Seifer adjusted their steps and moved to the stairs.

* * *

Rinoa had discovered that despite appearances and his tendency to go on long-winded tangents, Laguna could hold up a halfway decent conversation. Good food made him especially chatty, not that she minded. Irvine had barely said a word since their food had arrived. The silence of the empty restaurant didn’t help.

Halfway through an anecdote about Adel’s strange physique, Rinoa felt something shift in her awareness. Immediately, her mental image of the runes she had placed around Squall’s head appeared, and one of them vanished. The string was incomplete, screaming as it broke and before Rinoa could make heads or tails out of the feeling, another one went. She was about to speak when she heard her com-link bleeping. She picked it up.

The caller ID said it was Odine.

“Yes?”

_“He’s dying!”_

“What!?”

“ _His vitals are dropping! There iz no brain activity! He... He just flatlined! He’s... either he’s dead or somebody iz disconnecting him. You have to get there, now!”_

Rinoa glared at Laguna.

“Something the matter, Madame President?” he asked, sweetly.

Rinoa’s eyes widened with realization. “You’re stalling me, you’re _stalling_ me!”

Throwing away her com-link, Rinoa rose to her feet, but before she had even completed the jack move, Laguna pulled out a handgun and aimed at her head. Irvine went for his own weapon, but his arm stopped halfway – Kiros, surprisingly nimble and quick for an old man, had pressed a katal against his throat. Ward pulled his hands out of the sleeves of his robes and produced two submachine guns that looked like pistols in his giant hands.

Laguna smiled. “I’m afraid you won’t be going anywhere, Madame President. So why don’t you sit down and get comfortable.”

Rinoa clenched her teeth. “You little _shit._ Do you have any idea what you’re playing at?”

“As you were quick to remind me, you were keeping my son.” Laguna said, “I had no intention of letting you continue.”

“Even if you manage to get him out of Deling somehow, there’s still... heh.“

She started laughing. Next to her, Irvine was trying to keep his arm steady. He eventually lowered his pistol and admitted defeat. Rinoa, following his example, slowly sat back down. Laguna’s handgun remained trained at her head.

“This is war.” Rinoa said, “All-out war. Even if you succeed in retrieving him, you are the man who pulled the trigger on something much larger than Squall fucking Leonhart.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Laguna said.

“Why? ‘cause he’s your son? How far will that make you go?”

“Rinoa...” Laguna said, “I’d burn the world for him.”

“You didn’t even know you had a son until three years ago!”

“So, I should care less for him because of that? You might not understand this, but blood runs thicker than water.”

Rinoa huffed in mockery of what he had said. Laguna was unfazed.

“Just because you hate your father, doesn’t mean everyone else has to.” he said.

“You abandoned him.”

“I didn’t know he existed until the final chapter of the Second War. There’s a difference.”

“So, you just abandoned your wife, then?”

Laguna’s jawline twitched and Rinoa saw that she had hit a nerve. She surreptitiously prodded Irvine with her foot, who didn’t react at all except for tightening his grip around on his handgun.

“You don’t know anything about her.” Laguna said.

“Know that she died giving birth to your fuckhead of a son.” Rinoa said, “How was it, I wonder? Did she suffer? Did she wish you were by her side and not chasing the neighbor’s girl halfway across the fucking globe? She died alone because of you. She died alone and in pain, and you weren’t even there to see it.”

“You fucking-“

Irvine used his spare hand to grip the table's edge and stood up, using his shoulder as the leverage and flipped the table over. Before it had turned over, Rinoa stood up and gave it a kick, ramming it into the three men behind it. She turned and started to run, and Irvine followed. Kiros leapt over the table and then came at Rinoa, katals swinging. The old man was pretty spry for his age, Rinoa noted, as she lifted her arms towards him and pushed the air, causing an invisible force to send Kiros flying over the overturned table and across the restaurant.

Irvine grabbed Rinoa by the arm and moved towards the exit, which was when Laguna let off four shots, each one blinder than the previous. Irvine responded by whipping around, firing and managing to hit Ward squarely on his left shoulder just as he had moved out of cover. Laguna stood up at the same time and got another shot off at the same time as Irvine, and they both managed to hit each other in the shoulder joint. Irvine switched hands and took two more shots as she zig-zagged through the tables, and Ward let off a volley of shots that scattered in their direction. Rinoa barely had time to point to Irvine and cast Protect on him before the hail of bullets drew shallow lines across his uniform.

They crashed past the double gates and ran to the stairs leading to the lobby. Rinoa took out her com-link and went through the channels until she found the one belonging to her house guards.

“This is the President, there are intruders in the Mansion! Call all units, proceed inside immediately! Shoot to kill, I repeat, shoot to kill!”

Irvine looked over his shoulder, “Why didn’t you beef up security? I told you-“

“I know what you said." Rinoa snapped, "But who’d be crazy enough to fuck with me now?”


	22. Rescue

Xu climbed the final flight of steps to the President’s Office to find the entire desk, and some of the carpet around it on fire. The flames were rising high, the smoke already thick in the room. She hurried to the door, followed closely by Brea. Selphie and Seifer, guiding Squall’s floating body, urged them on. After checking to see if there was anyone outside and finding the hallway empty, Xu and Brea spread out to both sides and advanced slowly.

They came to the stairs, which was when two soldiers, standing below, where they should not have been, spotted them. Brea aimed and pulled the trigger, getting two shots off each. She managed to bring one down, but the other one rolled, got up to one knee and returned fire. Three shots went to the ceiling as Brea pulled herself back at the last second.

“If he doesn’t move, we’re stuck here.” Brea said.

“Not necessarily.” Selphie said, “I can-“

Footsteps quickly drew nearer and two soldiers, brandishing swords, appeared on either side. Xu didn’t waste any time in coming swinging on one of them, who parried her initial thrusts. The other one charged Brea, who barely had time to put up her pistols’ blades in defense.

Seifer let go of Squall and closed the distance between him and the soldier on top of Brea. He made quick work of him with an 8-slash and ran him through with his blade. On top of the other staircase, Xu slid her blade in between the soldier’s ribs.

A gunshot went off and Xu’s left shoulder exploded with a brief spurt of blood. Xu retreated, and a volley of shots followed.

“Three gunmen.” Brea said, “There’s more of them down there.”

“Maybe they called the other guards.” Selphie said.

Their comm-links buzzed. Quistis' voice, full of urgency, came through.

_“Laguna called. Rinoa’s en route. Get the fuck out of there!”_

“Fuck this,” Selphie said. She took a deep breath and started pointing at each one of them, ending the motion with herself, each time muttering the same word,-: _“Fast.”_

Their awareness of the world shifted, changing even the stillness. Behind them, the flames slowly engulfing the room danced a slower jig, lazily swaying. The smoke rose up in waves, rippling and the pieces of furniture burning cracked in slow-motion. Their movements were, from their perspective, oddly out of sync with the rest of the world; contained and fast.

Xu and Brea took point once more and led them downstairs. There were two soldiers by the front door, one aiming high and the other attempting to charge the stairs. Brea aimed and pulled twice, without waiting to watch the bullet slowly drill their life away. They ran down the corridor, towards the back door. Upon pulling it open, they found four soldiers, two with rifles aimed at the door and two with swords, waiting for them. Brea took the ones on the left down and Xu cut through the ones on the right. They cleared the gates and continued.

Halfway through to the treeline, the world suddenly shifted - everything sped up until they caught up with their perception. Squall’s body fell down onto the grass and laid there, limbs scattered as Selphie and Seifer stumbled. Brea fell, and Xu managed to fall just to her knees.

They all turned, weapons ready, to see Rinoa standing right by the corner of the Mansion’s wall. She stomped towards them, her anger clear. Brea fired both pistols, emptying out the clips. The bullets, each one marking a different, orange spot, made a sharp sound and bounced right off of her. Brea rolled and ejected the spent clips. As she reloaded, Seifer and Xu stepped forward.

Behind them, Selphie concentrated. She opened her eyes and whispered _“Thundaga.”_ The air around her hands cracked and the energy released itself in the form of cracking lightning, which Rinoa simply shrugged off and continued to advance.

“Stop her, _stop her!_ ” Selphie screamed as she knelt down next to Squall’s body. Last line of defense. She wouldn’t let the Sorceress take him, not again.

Seifer and Xu moved in unison, swords at the ready, and they swung at the same time. Rinoa lifted both arms and their swords bounced off an invisible shield. They came at her from both sides, using different attacks, each one meeting the same invisible wall as she continued to advance.

Brea fired, this time in groups of two, but each shot simply vanished before reaching its target. Brea ejected the clips, reloaded and moved to Selphie’s side.

“Lift him. We can still carry him!” Selphie said, fear clear in her voice.

_“Float.”_

Squall’s body rose from the ground. Rinoa, still holding up her arms to block Seifer and Xu’s unrelenting assault, whispered, _“Dispel.”_ Squall’s body fell down once more.

“ _Enough._ ” she snarled, her voice echoing.

Seifer and Xu were both thrown off their feet and towards Selphie and Brea. They fell down hard, rolled and then scrambled to their feet.

“Sir!”

Selphie was simply staring at Rinoa, who was all but five feet away from them now. Her hair was flowing around her head in stray locks, and even across the distance, she was emanating pure anger.

“You’re not taking him.” Rinoa said, “You’re not taking him away from me. You’re not going anywhere.”

“Sir!” Brea repeated to Selphie, who seemed to have zoned out completely.

“Don’t bother.” Rinoa said, “Her little mind couldn’t take it. You fucking morons – who do you think you’re fucking with here?”

Seifer’s eyes widened. Xu’s expression shifted to one of confusion and Brea stopped trying to reach Selphie. Selphie clenched her teeth as she wove the last part of the second string. Rinoa felt the ground disappear as wings sprouted out of her sides and quickly moved her away from them. She screamed in protest, legs kicking, and summoned her own wings –black, crow-like wings- to counter the move. She stopped a little ways away from them, straining to remain.

She held out her palm and burning lightning erupted from it, but halfway through, it was deflected off of a wall. Rinoa’s new wings dragged her back slightly before pulling her hard.

Selphie panted, trying to catch her breath. _Rest later. Cast now._

She gently tapped on Squall’s chest and whispered, _“Float.”_

Brea helped Selphie to her feet. Xu and Seifer immediately seized Squall’s floating body and darted towards the tree line. Brea helped Selphie walk and they stumbled after the others.

In the distance and growing more and more distant still, Rinoa’s screams and the crackling of magical energy was echoing.

“What did you do, sir?” Brea asked.

“Limit break,” Selphie said, “That’s what we call it... the shit we do when... facing too much... I can cast... different spells. That was Rapture combined with the Wall... Hyne... never double-casted before.”

“You saved us, sir.”

“Just help me walk, Brea.”

“Yes, sir.”

They stumbled furhter into the treeline, to their landing zone. They found the pilot leaning against the craft, smoking a cigarette. He threw it away upon seeing them and entered the cockpit. The hatch on the side of the hovercraft opened slowly.

Selphie dispelled the floating spell. Xu and Seifer barely managed to hold Squall up when his weight returned. But they carried him in, and Selphie followed. Brea was the last one to board. She closed the hatch and signaled the pilot to take off. The hovercraft gracefully rose to the air and rotated before jerking forward and shooting into the heart of the night. The humming of the engine and of the air flowing around the hovercraft filled the interior.

Selphie, feeling the night gently roll off her shoulders, reached out and pulled Squall into her arms. She held him there, feeling the warmth from his skin.

Just feeling him there, confirming his presence through touching him filled her with condensed emotion, threatening to overwhelm.

“Hyne... What have they done to you..?”

She held him close, pressed her cheek against his bare scalp and allowed herself to feel his loss and his damage. The others turned away, too tired to say anything, and let her cry.


	23. Epilogue (Deathlike)

Two days.

It had taken her two days to work up the courage to ask them if he was awake. He was. He had been. Sedated, but awake. The checks they could get the results of thus far had shown nothing out of the ordinary. He _had_ been kept in good condition. But none of that told anything about what he was thinking, how he was feeling.

Now, standing in front of the door to his hospital room, she felt too nervous to speak. Her heart was pounding, and all she could think about was his bare scalp under the pale lights of the panic room, the Centran ink on his skin... the thought of him being where Ellone had once taken her to... Hyne...

_But he’s here. He’s here, and he’s okay and it’s going to be alright. You saved him. You saved him._

Selphie took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and then entered the room. She took two steps in and froze. Squall’s bed was empty. The cables and wires belonging to the same kinds of monitors they had unplugged him from laid scattered across his bed. Selphie saw that the balcony door was open and feared the worst. She hadn’t taken two more steps in when a growl emerged from someone coming up from behind her. Selphie barely had time to raise one hand before a makeshift garrote made mainly from cables went over her head and closed around her neck. With two fingers stuck in between the cables and her throat, Selphie couldn’t react before a knee hit the back of hers and her legs buckled. As she fell, the knee pressed against her back and her head was jerked backwards.

Selphie looked up.

What she saw was a twisted, distorted version of a face she once knew – a nightmare incarnation of what she was used to... still the same, with the same features and same recognizable symmetries and asymmetries, but contorted into an expression of pure aggression, the unending fury of a caged animal.

“Sq... Sq... S...” Selphie choked. She tried to slide the rest of her hand in between the wire, but she could barely keep it a fraction of a centimeter away from her throat, and her arm was starting to ache under the strain.

For a moment, Selphie was tempted beyond words to just let go. She was tired. She was tired of what the wars had done to her, she was tired of what this one had done to him... she was tired of seeing Sir Laguna take up arms, get shot at, tired of seeing Brea shoulder their burdens, tired of seeing Quistis struggle with using only one hand to do anything, tired of seeing her other hand as a black fist... she was tired of herself, she was tired of breaking down precisely when she needed to stand... tired. So tired.

A teardrop slid down her cheek and she reached up, fingers extending, trying to find his face. She found his cheek and cupped it, sliding her fingers across his skin, caressing, as if to reassure. It's alright. It's alright.

The chokehold loosened up and eventually let her go. She fell down, coughing, trying to catch her breath. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him, back to the wall, eyes wide open in an expression of pure shock. He looked at his hand, saw the garrote, and dropped it as if it were a baby Anacondaur.

Selphie sat up, still coughing, feeling her throat ache with each one. She grabbed hold of the bed’s railing and stood up, her lungs gasping for air.

He was just standing there, looking at her like she was impossible.

“But that’s impossible...” he said, “I tried... I tried so many times...”

Selphie tried to speak, seeing his thoughts coming undone and his notions slowly imploding before her eyes, but her throat was too knotted up to let her. She tried, gagged on the words, and as she kept forcing herself to shape the words, he took a step towards her. She caught his eyes and couldn’t look away.

All she saw in those blue orbs was abject despair.

“Selphie...”

“Y-“ cough again, “Yes?”

He ran a hand across his bare scalp.

“They shaved my head.”

She felt something break in her chest.

“Is this real..?” he asked. Selphie saw in his eyes that whatever she said next, he’d take to heart. So she spoke the only truth she knew:

“I’m here, Squall.”

“Oh, Hyne...”

He stumbled forward and fell onto his knees. His hands found her waist and he held onto her for dear life. Selphie froze up, overwhelmed, as he openly cried.

“I’m sorry...” he sobbed, “Oh, I’m _so_ sorry...”

He held onto her as he wept. Selphie, holding back tears, gently stroked his head, fingers sliding against his bare scalp. She could feel his skull under the skin and for a moment, he seemed so vulnerable.

“Shhh...” she whispered, “It’s okay... it’s all going to be alright...”

She knew it wouldn’t. The war was still raging on, and he was already beaten.


	24. The Lies My Father Told Me

Our summer home in Cupola was the dream both of my parents shared - that was an extremely rare thing in my house. It wasn’t a very big house, or very extravagant – it wasn’t supposed to be. It was a two-story, two-bedroom, two-bathroom with a sizeable back yard, a very nice balcony over the porch and it was made with the money my mother and father had scrounged together during my mother’s more successful years in composing music.

My father always talked about ‘making Cupola’ in one way or another. One of my ‘uncles’ (my father’s friends from the army) explained to me what it meant when I was little. I remember asking my mother about it, and she said that making Cupola wasn’t a dream reserved solely for old soldiers. That was the truth: Cupola isn’t old soldiers’ dream.

Cupola, instead, is a graveyard.

Every house built here is another mausoleum, every mailbox a tombstone. The soldiers living out their last days here are locking themselves in the now-realized dreams of making Cupola. They all came here to die. Some are already dead inside, they’re just waiting for their body to give out.

Now, standing in front of the house that both of my parents always told me would be theirs, watching my soldiers get on the porch and cautiously check inside, I feel that this house is one of the lies that my father told me.

I only saw this house once before now, and it was during its construction. I remembered support beams, stones being cemented into place, the low walls marking the house’s boundaries sealing it in. Like a country, like the dwindling borders of the Holy Dollet Empire from all those history lessons my father always found time for. I remember being excited, dreaming of spending summers there; or just one summer. After the first year orr two, I thought I would settle for just one. I never got to see a single summer, nor the house before now.

My mother died shortly after the house’s completion. Even before then, this house in Cupola had decayed: it had become my father’s dream, part of the traditions the army had drilled into him, and my mother had given up on it completely.

My mother died before it could be summer. My father told me that it was nobody’s fault. He lied.

A soldier emerges from the house and gestures for us to come closer. I tell Irvine to stay behind. I enter the front yard, and the cobblestone path leading up to the porch feels like a holy road. This is my pilgrimage – I am going into the house my parents’ dreams have built, and that my father consumed.

I enter the house, and the first thing I notice is the phone, lying forgotten on the floor. It has no cord. I look on, and on the kitchen counter, two bottles of beer are gleaming green. One of my soldiers is standing in the adjoining section to the left. I cross the distance, and one of my soldiers steps up to me.

“Ms. President, perhaps you should wait. We can-“

“Step aside.”

My soldier shakes, trying to decide what to do, but ultimately decides to step aside. I brush past him and reach the small opening. There’s a table there, and some chairs – the overhead lamp fills the area with warm, orange light. A dining area, or a poker table for some of his army buddies... except he had none. A few of my soldiers stiffen up upon seeing me, but it’s not me they should worry about.

I look down, and there he is.

He’s lying on his side. I can see that he’s cuffed to a chair, his feet are bound to the chair’s legs with lengths of cable. I can also see that there are nails driven into his fingers, there are glass shards sticking out of flesh pockets on his arms and legs. There’s a pool of blood already halfway dry around his head. I can see the entry wound – his skin is sort of hanging inwards, decorating the outer rim of the hole.

I remember that he told me: that soldiers found their end in battle, in one form of another. He lied.

“Leave.” I order. They comply.

I circle around the table and draw up a chair. I sit down.

Well, there he is.

I have many questions to ask in that moment. So many questions, but no answers at all – not from the dead, anyway. I wonder if I can make him speak, if I can reanimate him, if only for a short time. A piece of one of the black magic texts jumps out at me: that’s how Forbidden are made. No matter what he did or didn’t do, I can’t do that to him.

Scanning his body and making notes of all his wounds, I know that he suffered before he died. The final gunshot was a mercy, that much is clear, but he was long dead before then. He had become like the others in this graveyard called Cupola. Dead before his body gave out.

...but somewhere in the back of my mind, I am screaming.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

No, some random SeeD doesn’t get to kill you. Some random SeeD with a gun and a penchant for torture isn’t supposed to end your life. You don’t deserve to die in the house you took from my mother. You don’t deserve it, because you haven’t earned the right. You don’t get to make Cupola and then just drop dead because you knew there was a panic room under your house – a room you built because you were too afraid of the consequences of your own actions. You told me once - told me that whatever you did, you did because you thought it was right.

You lied.

You told me you’d always love my mother.

You lied.

You told me that no matter what, you and mom would love me the same.

You lied.

You told me that it was nobody’s fault.

You lied.

You told me that it was too dangerous for me to mix with the resistance types.

You lied.

You told me that I didn’t understand anything, that I was just a child.

You lied.

You told me that you’d retire, that I would never see you again if I didn’t want to.

You lied.

You told me that power made monsters of us all.

You lied and lied and lied. You lied to me all my life.

And now you’re lying there, and you’re dead, and I don’t even get to lie to you and say: I’m here because I was worried. I’m here because I was afraid of what they might have done to you. I’m here because the thought of you quietly carrying my mother’s dream with you is better than the thought of you being tortured and shot like an animal in the home your dreams have built.

I’m here because they headed straight for the panic room.

I’m here, dad.

I’m here, and you’re gone, and now I won’t ever get to lie to you.


End file.
